


Like winter we are cruel

by lagardère (laurore)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, POV Jon, POV Sansa, a take-down of Littlefinger in ten chapters, also starring the Long Night, it used to be canon compliant, post-season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-02-10 12:44:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 101,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurore/pseuds/lagard%C3%A8re
Summary: Winter has come to Winterfell, Jon expects a war north of the Wall, and Littlefinger is brewing one inside the very castle.





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> So, this clearly isn't a new fic. In fact it's slightly dated: it was mostly written after season 6, back when I thought Littlefinger would be the main villain in season 7 (sweet summer child me). It seems relevant to repost it now, however, because it contains a take on the Long Night that is both quite similar to and strikingly different from what just happened in the show.
> 
> (This fic also reminds me of my early days in this fandom. Reposting it as season 8 draws to a close is something of a fitting farewell?)
> 
> I will only edit a few words here or there, and put up the chapters as I get that done, so hopefully the whole thing will be up fast!  
> xx L

Jon finds her asleep in the Godswood, as if she'd forgotten, somehow, about the dreaded winter cold. She sits huddled among the roots of the heart tree, with her face buried in the soft fur of Ghost's neck.

"There you are", he says.

He isn't sure whether he's addressing Sansa or the direwolf; he's spent the past hour looking for them both. Sansa he hasn't seen since morning, when he left with a contingent of men to repair a few villages south of Winterfell. It had been a gesture of goodwill, to curtail the damage caused by the Ironborn and the Boltons, and to show his face, so that the people may know that the Starks have returned to Winterfell.

He'd wanted Sansa and Ghost to accompany him. There are times when his sincerity turns against him - it would seem that his people want promises, rather than to be warned of the threat of another war. In such cases, he has learned to summon Ghost from the back of his retinue, or to rely upon a few of Sansa's well-chosen words. It works more often than not, sometimes beyond his expectations. They are an arresting sight, his regal sister and his snow-white wolf, ever capable of kindling a spark from the depths of dejected eyes.

But when he'd left this morning, Sansa had been deep in conversation with Littlefinger and her troops, a meeting held behind closed doors that he hadn't dared to interrupt. And Ghost had been off hunting - or at least, that's what he'd thought at the time. Now it occurs to him that the direwolf might have been with Sansa all along. He hasn't seen him since the night before, and it wouldn't be the first time Ghost has slept in Sansa's room. Jon had caught him at it once, slinking out of her chambers at the crack of dawn, and he'd swallowed down a misplaced pang of envy, banishing all thoughts of his own empty bed.

Sansa stirs and yawns. Her eyes flutter open in a flash of pale blue, pure as mountain ice. It's a painful sight, not so much like the piercing jab of a knife or arrow, but rather like an echo of Melisandre's spells: a cruel jolt of his scarred heart, as it begins to beat anew.

"I fell asleep", she says in a drowsy murmur, rubbing her eyes. "I didn't mean to."

"You're lucky you didn't freeze to death."

He holds out a hand and pulls her to her feet. Ghost rises as well, shaking off a thin coat of snow. The air about them is still, as it often is in the Godswood, though the silence has a different quality to it now that winter has settled in - as if the sounds have been smothered, or trapped beneath the snow. It's an ominous kind of quiet, one that slips beneath the skin and grinds against the bones.

"How did it go?" she asks.

"It could have been worse", Jon shrugs, as they step away from the heart tree. "They listened, at least. And the repairs will get them through the winter. Of course, it's not a few stone walls that'll keep the White Walkers out." He sighs. "It's all a waste of time and resources. We shouldn't be preparing for winter. We should have done that during the summer. It's the war we should be worrying about."

Sansa slips an arm under his, and he allows himself the temporary comfort of leaning into her, shoulder to shoulder and with his pulse beating fast against her palm. It's likely she doesn't feel it, hidden beneath several layers of leather and wool, and that's a comfort in and of itself. He'd rather she never learns how much of his life is tethered to her wellbeing, how much of the upcoming war rests upon the too-rare flicker of her tired smile.

"You know there's nothing we can do. We can't just ride past the Wall and seek them out", she says.

"We should prepare ourselves better. And the South should as well. These wars have lasted long enough."

They have received entreaties from both sides, promises and lies. Letters that demand the allegiance of the North in the name of Daenerys Stormborn of the many titles, and of Cersei Lannister, first of her name. None of the many letters have displayed much concern for the threat beyond the Wall, in spite of Sansa's carefully-worded replies.

"I've written a letter for Tyrion", Sansa says. "I was waiting for your return to send it."

She slants a look at him, a way to say, see, I'm not going behind your back this time.

"At least, he's been to the Wall", Jon concedes. "Maybe he'll be more receptive than his queen."

The full meaning of her words only hits him several steps later. They have come to a large courtyard, where many torches have been lit to ward off the coming dusk. Jon pulls them both to a halt and whirls Sansa around, trapping her hand between his own.

"You're still married to him", he exclaims. "Tyrion. You wrote to him as his wife. That's what you were conferring about, with Littlefinger."

Sansa pulls her hand free, blue eyes blazing. She never looks so much like her mother as when she's angry. All of a sudden he is not a king but a child, cowering under the weight of Catelyn Stark's withering glare.

"It's the right thing to do", Sansa declares. "If they won't listen to a king, do you think they'll listen to the king's sister? This wedding is the only thing I can bargain with."

"You're not going back to him."

That earns him another glare, though it's hardly needed. He knows how ridiculous he sounds. So far, if one of them has had any success at protecting the other, it has been her, with her knights and her manipulations and the clothes sewn by her steady fingers.

"I'd sooner go back to him than marry someone else", she says coldly. "At least he's a decent person. He's never laid a hand on me."

"You don't have to marry at all, if you don't want to", Jon tries to protest.

The memory of Ramsay makes him long for another bone-breaking punch, for another pack of starving hounds.

"You'll need me to marry or be married." She no longer sounds annoyed, but he isn't sure he prefers this newfound patience. It's too laden with resignation. "You'll probably have to marry too", she adds. "To one queen or the other. If we want to keep the North without a fight."

Jon starts off across the courtyard, trying to hide his dazed expression. If he slows down, he'll have to admit that the thought had never crossed his mind. He's been so preoccupied with the White Walkers and the rebuilding of Winterfell that he's had little time to consider what an alliance with one of the southern queens would mean.

"It would be easier if it were just us", he laments when Sansa catches up with him.

Ghost dashes between them and disappears through an open door. Jon is in no hurry to go inside. He used to think that being at the head of the table in the Great Hall would fill him with joy. But now he feels nothing but dread, barely mitigated by a sense of purpose. Responsible for a war that he has no means to fight. Responsible for a castle that he can't possibly sustain. Responsible for a family scattered to the winds, and for a people too battered to withstand the long night ahead.

"It is 'just us', Jon", Sansa says, sounding slightly surprised that she has to say this out loud. "That's why we have to rely on each other."

She presses his hand and huddles close to him on the threshold, with the grim winter night on one side and a cold, empty corridor on the other. The sounds of the castle are distant, muted by the loud beating of his heart. He lifts her gloved hand to his lips and kisses it, his eyes searching her face for he knows not what. A proof of deceit or a proof of trust. Anything but the stern, beautiful features of a girl who's been forced to lie so often that the truth would poison her  
tongue.

"Just us", she repeats, and for a fraction of a second, in the desperate stress on the "us", he hears an echo of the little girl who grew up in Winterfell, her head filled with stories. Then that memory dissipates, brushed aside as Sansa leans in and kisses him, all too briefly, on the lips.

"Sansa."

It's a whisper and a warning and a demand, too. He has to refrain from drawing out Longclaw and laying it at her feet. But it turns out the gesture would have been unnecessary, for Ghost has returned and betrayed his master's restraint. The direwolf rubs himself against Sansa's legs with unbridled affection. Sansa laughs, startled, and pulls off a glove to scratch Ghost behind the ears.

Jon is not so far gone that he will beg for that as well, and he hurries down the hall before his mouth betrays him more thoroughly than Ghost already has.

 

 

Most of the northern lords are still present in Winterfell for dinner that night. Jon sits at the front of the room with Sansa at his side, the both of them lost in a contemplation of the crowded Great Hall. For the past few minutes, Jon has been gazing in amusement at the wildlings' table, where Tormund attempts to engage the newly-returned Brienne of Tarth. It takes Sansa's hand on his arm for him to notice the maester standing beside their table.

The old man had arrived from Castle Cerwyn the week before, as an apology for the lack of involvement of House Cerwyn in the battle against the Boltons. It was a gift the Starks would have been loathe to refuse. The battle has left many wounded men in need of care, and the constant flow of messages means that the ravens must be tended to.

It's the latter function that now brings the maester to the hall. The roll of parchment that he holds up for Jon's inspection bears the seal of House Targaryen. Jon rips it open, noting at a glance that most of the room has yet to notice this interruption. Sansa is not looking at the letter but at the table to the far right, where Petyr Baelish has abandoned his plate in favour of swirling the ale in his cup. Littlefinger has the look of a man who'd only recently been looking elsewhere.

Jon reads the message, gets to the end of it, and reads it again. Then he pushes the parchment towards Sansa, watching as she reads it too. Her eyes widen. She is prompt to hide her surprise, however, and when she slides the letter back towards him, her face is once again schooled into an expression of pleasant indifference. When he picks up the letter, her fingers briefly grip his own.

Jon rises. Silence falls gradually, nearly immediate on the side of the room where Baelish sits with the knights of the Vale, though it takes much longer to  
spread among the wildlings. Eventually, Tormund throws his cup at the head of one of his rambunctious neighbours, and the Great Hall settles. Jon can feel the weight of their gazes, solemn and expectant.

"The war in the south is over", he announces. "Daenerys Targaryen sits on the Iron Throne. Cersei Lannister is dead."

He leaves out the details. The mysterious circumstances of Cersei's death, and the account of a battle between divided houses -- Lannister against Lannister and Greyjoy against Greyjoy, with the dregs of the Martells and Tyrells following behind, consuming themselves in that final stand. All that matters is that the war is over. Now there is nothing that will keep the south from looking northwards.

"Is the Dragon Queen declaring war on us?" Lord Manderly asks.

"When are we marching south?" another bannerman calls, and from then on it's a cacophony of loud questions. Is Daenerys coming north or will the northerners go south, is the new queen accepting their autonomy, is she as mad as her father, are the Lannisters truly defeated or like the Targaryens, will they rise from their ashes?

And from Lyanna Mormont, a query that rings clearly across the Great Hall. "Will she come up north to help us in our fight?"

"She will", Jon replies, and takes advantage of the ensuing silence to add, "but only if we swear allegiance to her."

The room erupts in indistinct shouting once again. The North has not so recently crowned a king to see him bend the knee before some queen from beyond the seas, no matter the size of her army or the dragons she might possess. Jon can hardly gather his wits among the angry cries of "King in the North!" and the in-fighting that has broken out a few tables to the left, where the wildlings had been seated next to the envoys from House Glover.

Jon looks at his side, where Sansa sits pensive, her eyes on the crowd.

"No matter what comes of it, we need her help", he tells her. "We need her dragons, and if she's taken back Dragonstone, there's reserves of dragonglass there, too. The only way we'll stand a chance against the White Walkers is with her help."

"I know." Sansa looks up, her mouth set. "It's a gamble we'll have to make. You have to tell her we'll swear allegiance if she defeats the White Walkers. Then, we'll renegotiate."

"You're with me on this", Jon confirms, brown eyes locked with blue. Sansa nods.

He turns back towards the crowd.

"I will tell the Dragon Queen that any oath of allegiance must wait until the White Walkers have been defeated", he declares.

He prepares for a good hour of pointless quarrels, at best. The North won't take too kindly to a promise of allegiance, even or especially a false one. The wildlings for once are fairly subdued, but the bannermen are another affair, every one of them up on their feet, some swaying as a result of the ale they've drunk by the barrel, and they yell in each other's faces, red-cheeked and with spit flying.

"We'll have to reason with them", Jon tells Sansa, and finds that she isn't paying him any attention. Her eyes have drifted to Petyr Baelish, and they seem to be communicating at a distance, if the minute shift of Baelish's eyebrows and the slight tightening of his lips is anything to go by. Jon is not particularly good at this game of innuendos, but since he was stabbed in the heart, he has become better at telling when he's being played.

Baelish looks away from Sansa, only long enough that he can smirk at Jon, with the self-satisfaction of a malicious cat. Sansa follows this shift in attention. Her gaze softens when she finds Jon looking at her.

"Don't pay him any attention", she says. "I have him under control."

For a dizzying moment, Jon wonders if she's been telling Littlefinger the same thing.

He dismisses the thought, tears his eyes away from her lap where Ghost has put his great snowy head.

The Hall is less conflicted than a few moments before, in part because Ser Davos and Lyanna Mormont have risen and exerted their particular brands of persuasion, the first rightfully concerned, the second steely and indisputable. A few men are still fighting at the back, but it doesn't appear to have anything to do with the subject at hand.

"We will ask the Dragon Queen to join us in the coming war", Jon says. "There's no point in fighting amongst ourselves when there's a greater menace lying just outside our borders. I'll write to Daenerys Stormborn."

He expects the few cries of "madness" and otherwise injurious terms. He's relieved to find that they're mostly swallowed up by the dozens of men shouting their support, reminding him that they would lay down their lives for the White Wolf of Winterfell.

 

 

Less than a day after a raven has been dispatched to the Dragon Queen in King's Landing, another bird flies into the rookery. It follows the usual saying of dark wings and dark words. The message is not in Edd's hand, but it's undoubtedly his work. The sinister tone is unmistakable. Granted, the new Lord Commander has tried not to be too alarming. He has failed miserably.

It is this message that spurs the King to ride towards the Wall with a limited number of men, a very small fraction of the army currently garrisoned at Winterfell. Jon means to evaluate the situation before he commits what little forces he has to an assault on the White Walkers. Edd wrote of a strange gathering beyond the Wall, of wights wandering at night at the edge of the Haunted Forest. After many pointless discussions, to which Sansa and Lyanna Mormont had brought a resolute end, the Northerners had agreed to send a few troops to Castle Black. At no point in time had it been decided that Jon would accompany them, and judging from Sansa and Davos's exasperated faces when he had announced that he would, a mere hour before the departure of the troops, it's a decision he might live to regret.

Kings do not inspect strange happenings, hundreds of miles away from their damaged castles. They don't ride off on a whim, leaving their regal duties in the hands of a sister and a smuggler and a ten year-old child, no matter how clever the sister, or wise the smuggler, or fierce the child.

Jon eggs his horse on so the beast will not waste the receding daylight. He's surrounded by riders, but save for Tormund's shaggy silhouette ahead, most of them are strangers. As he watches Ghost dart between the trees, every gnarled trunk reminds him of the White Walker at the battle of Hardhome, with his arms lifted to rise the dead. And this battle calls forth the dreaded memories of every other battle -- the White Walker shattering like ice and Ramsay grinning through a mouthful of blood, Ygritte's hair shining through the flames in the courtyard of Castle Black, Ygritte closing her eyes, dead wildlings and dead horses and mud-caked limbs pressing down on him from every direction, bearing him to the ground.

As soon as they emerge from the forests north of Winterfell, these memories dissolve, as if the wind were pushing them away, making way for new wars, for future losses and future deaths. His own death, maybe, again and again until it pleases the gods to let him die.

The Wall is faintly visible on the horizon, a long line of ice whiter than the winter sky.

When he refuses to think of the war ahead, his treacherous mind travels backwards towards Winterfell. It's a dangerous line of thought, a memory of mingled breaths and clasped hands, and of rust-coloured hair in the low light. But it serves its purpose, the thought of Sansa like a talisman against the cold and the rising shadows.

He doesn't indulge for long. He tries to understand. It has to do, he thinks, with Winterfell. This girl he knew or never did know as a child, with her direwolf dress and her steely spine. She embodies everything he has ever craved from the Starks.

Sansa has never been family to him as the others had been -- and he can't help but think of Robb and Arya, the brother in games and foolish fistfights, and his dearest sister, a cherished spark within the northern gloom. Sansa had been a distant, haughty figure, pretty and aloof. Maybe it's this absence of ties that has caused their present folly, like a misguided attempt to bind themselves to one another in any way they could find.

It was a moment of madness. It won't happen again.

"Snow!"

Jon whirls around, though there is no telling who has spoken, and whether they were addressing him. The snow has been falling softly since they left the forest.  
None of them would call him Snow, he remembers belatedly. He is a Stark now, and a king.

From the north there comes a distant sound, ponderous and low, like a horn calling the troops to arms before a battle. Strangely, though it might be a trick of the landscape rushing past, Jon could swear that the rumble comes from inside the earth, and that the Kingsroad has _shifted_ under the horses' hooves.  
Shouts echo left and right as the riders rein in their mounts.

"What was that?" a man calls from somewhere behind Jon.

A few feet ahead, Tormund turns back in his saddle, slack-jawed and with his red eyebrows raised high over his startled eyes.

The riding party waits as if suspended in time, a moment that seems to stretch on and on though Jon barely has time to take a few frosty breaths. He's about to spur on his men, hands tightening about the reins, when the last echo of the horn fades and is replaced by a far more ominous sound.

Cracking ice.

"The Wall", one of the men says. It's a testament to the men's stunned silence that every single rider can hear his hollow whisper.

Gradually, with a slowness that makes them doubt their eyes, the Wall begins to fall. The terrible collapse seems to echo inside Jon's chest, as if the Wall was taking with it a part of him, unhooking it from behind his ribs and dragging it down in an endless scrape of ice on bone. The blue-white line on the horizon disappears behind a shifting cloud of debris that seems to swallow up the sky.

Jon knows that if the men aren't already looking at him for guidance, they will soon. He refrains from sagging in the saddle and strives to think as every nightmare he has had in the past few months proves to have come desperately true.

His first instinct is to ride ahead, towards the gathering storm, where some of his brothers might still be alive, and in need of rescue. But the Wall, or the stark void where the Wall stood only moments before, is still hundreds of miles away. Riding on to try and rescue Edd would be a far worse folly than this impromptu ride had been. Sending men ahead, meanwhile, would merely provide the White Walkers with more wights to fill their ranks.

"To Winterfell!" he cries at last.

As he charges back towards the forest, surrounded by a horde of wild-eyed men, he refuses to look back. For all that he's lost, there remains a home to defend.

The Watch has ended. The war has begun.


	2. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm the king of winter and ruin," he says, with a dispirited smile. "All hail."

"How many more?" Sansa asks, watching the shadows file into the courtyard.

They drag their heavy feet through the muddy snow, villagers and farmers and hedge knights, the family of lords and of paupers alike. The men and women are nearly indistinguishable, burrowed as they are in their warm winter clothes. Sometimes, the head of a child emerges from the folds of a cape. All of them look haggard and weary, a succession of haunted faces in the light of the torches.

"Forty-eight", Davos replies, counting the heads as they come in. "We can relocate them with the groups from last night, in the Great Keep. They'll be warm, at least..."

"Are they from the winter town?"

Davos shakes his head. "Further up north. There's a rumour Last Hearth has been abandoned. We won't know for sure until the King returns."

If he does return, Sansa thinks, though she has learned not to say such things out loud. More often than not, people think her cold, when to her this pragmatism is a strength - a sign of her will to endure.

"No word from Jon yet?"

"Not yet, my lady. Should I accompany this group to the Great Keep?"

From the onset of this cold, dark war, Sansa has felt that it was her duty to welcome the populations of her homeland. They come with little to nothing in the way of belongings or friends, chased away from their villages and castles by the army of the Night's King. During the first few nights, Sansa tried to oversee the resettlement of every single northerner within the walls of Winterfell. Eventually, however, the task proved more daunting than she would have thought. It's a lord refusing to share a room with a trader, or with some other lord who isn't from his immediate circle. It's a village put to the torch by the remnants of the Lannister armies, or girls hurt during a raid led by deserters from Jon's army. Every day, Sansa tries to feed and clothe hundreds, and to give them a semblance of hope. It's a thankless task for a hopeless girl.

At night, she insists on spending several hours walking the castle halls, asking the names of Jon's subjects, trying to learn their stories and to provide comfort where she can. But she has learned to delegate, and Davos and Lyanna Mormont spend as much time in Jon's war councils as they do giving out bedding and supplies. As for the complaints, Sansa has refused to listen to them outside of a single night during the week, where she passes judgment in the Great Hall.

"Make sure they have something to eat," Sansa tells Davos, gauging the vacant looks and spiritless gait of the new arrivals. "I'll send some of the knights to replenish our stores in the morning."

As she walks away from the sinister crowd, feeling their despair like poison on the wind, she can't help but look towards the east. The dawn is still hours away, but she has a stubborn streak. The dawn is Jon in the grey light, the North's diminished troops trudging through the gates and that one soldier who bears the torn direwolf standard. She repairs the banner herself every time the troops return, only to see it return in pieces after the next battle.

The army doesn't come home every morning. Though Jon's first priority is to defend Winterfell, there are other castles that need his protection, engaged as they are in a losing battle against the Night's King. And there are villages, too, where the people were far too preoccupied with the coming of winter to prepare for an assault. Sometimes, it's two or three days before she receives any kind of news.

She's hardened herself. The wait is no longer this steady pain, like a hook driven through her heart, agitated by a cruel hand. Slowly, inch by inch and with every moment she spends alone, she turns herself into a cold shell. It's harder when Jon returns, and with him the secretive smiles, and a blinding glimpse of the old summer.

She heads towards the Godswood, where every night an old man holds a vigil by the heart tree. He'd arrived in Winterfell the day after the Wall fell, and on the following night his sons had all been given swords and mail and he had set up his vigil, praying the Old Gods in their name. At first he prayed for their swift return. Now Sansa knows he's praying for a true and lasting death, one that will not have them rise and battle against their own brothers with a stone-cold heart and blue-eyed malice.

Still people join him in the Godswood at night, because they can't sleep for fear of the wights breaching the castle walls, because they have lost a son or a brother or a lover or because they fear that they will soon. They stand so utterly still beneath the trees that from afar they seem to be a man-made structure of standing stones, betrayed only by the foggy vapour of their icy breath.

Sansa is no more faithful than she was in King's Landing, when she retreated to the Godswood to find some peace of mind. She doesn't come to the Godswood to pray, though she sometimes spends the vigil wondering what she should pray for.

It's no use praying for an impossible victory, or for the sudden arrival of the Dragon queen. She won't beg for the death of Daenerys Targaryen, either, or for  
Petyr Baelish to lift the crown from the dead queen's head, and place it on her own.

She won't pray for Jon, the battle-bloody king who has no fear of defeat because he already knows what dying feels like. He can't hide how much he longs for it, a repeat of this first demise, and it's this desire for death that has him riding against the White Walkers each night.

She won't pray for him, and she won't pray for Arya and Bran. She might not be as resigned as she was when she heard Rickon had fallen into Ramsay's hands, but she bears no illusions as to their chances of survival, with winter and the wights upon them.

No, the Godswood is a shelter for her thoughts, and the vigil a moment of political play, when she shows to the people gathered there that she is the ruler they need, as steadfast as the Old Gods and the heart tree.

"You're an unforgettable vision," Petyr had said only the night before, and as she joins the people gathered beneath the tree, she's tempted to believe him. They turn towards her as if she were bringing the light into their circle, and many brush their fingers against her arms as she walks to the foot of the tree, as if that touch will give them strength.

On most nights, the vigil is silent. Tonight however, an elderly woman is humming a tune, and the others listen, with their heads bowed and their eyes closed. Sansa catches a glimpse of Petyr in the crowd. He started coming a day or two after she made it a habit to attend, though she is well aware that he has other affairs to tend to. She's heard of the itinerant brothel that he's set up within the castle. He found prostitutes first, and then he'd recruited village girls, too. It is a thriving business, especially in the daytime, when the troops march in to get a few hours of rest. Petyr hasn't asked her for her opinion on the subject, and it's possible he thinks she doesn't know. This might explain why he makes such a secret of the whole endeavour - the girls change rooms every day, and the only way to get access to them is to bribe the right maidservant, a young woman who might be sleeping with Petyr. Sansa doesn't have any clear reason to suspect the latter. But the girl is pretty, with red hair and eyes like the night sky, of a blue one could drown into.

During the vigils, Petyr stands at a distance, but his eyes never stray from Sansa's face. It's a gaze like an insect crawling up one's leg, a phantom itch. Tonight like every other night, she gathers her cloak around her and closes her eyes, though it takes a while for his face to disappear. The cunning look goes first, and then the sliver of a smile, though it leaves behind a mocking indent in her thoughts, like a warning that they're not hers to keep.

She meant to make use of the vigil to ponder the provision run - how many of the knights of the Vale will be sent out during the day time, and what they should set out to find, and where. But she finds her mind to be an idle thing, fluttering this way and that without committing to a single train of thought.

As often, she remembers the battle of Blackwater Bay, and the long wait with the women of the Court, while the men fought Stannis's fleet. It's a dreaded memory, but also one that she cherishes. Cersei had been in the Keep that night, but only one of them had behaved like a queen.

This memory reels in another, which snags against her calm facade and threatens to tear it apart. It's Cersei on the day she'd first bled, telling her in a rare display of compassion that love is always a weakness.

And as she stands beneath the heart tree, love is an evening in the Godswood, when the Wall was still standing and she'd fallen asleep beneath the tree. She'd dreamt of blue roses and ice. The smell of smoke was everywhere, but she'd buried her face in Ghost's fur, and later on, in what was no longer a dream but a strange, vibrant wakefulness, she'd kissed Jon beneath the walls of Winterfell. And the weakness had grown inside her, like a disease, as she tried to cling to the one thing that she'll never be allowed to keep.

Sansa opens her eyes, and realizes that the people in the Godswood are heading back. Those who bear lanterns point their trembling lights in the direction of the Great Keep. Soon there remains but a few people - the old lady who sang, and a woman crying and a man snoring softly among the roots of a gnarled tree. Even those are made to leave when the old woman notices Sansa beneath the tree, and Petyr who lingers among the shadows. She kicks the man awake and clasps the woman's hand, and before long it's only Petyr and Sansa, and a distant rumble that could be the sound of a battle, carried along the wind.

"How are you, my dear?"

He doesn't move. Maybe he's waiting for her to bridge the distance between them. Instead Sansa sits, gathering the folds of her cape as she settles among the roots of the heart tree.

"We need more food," she tells him. "We can barely put a roof over the head of all the people flocking to Winterfell. Our stores won't last the winter -- they won't even last a week. Send out some of your knights tomorrow. Have them visit every abandoned village they can find, tell them to return by sundown. Before sundown."

Petyr steps forward at last. He comes to sit beside her, his arms crossed over his knees. She resists a silly impulse to lean against his shoulder.

"A wise decision," he notes. "See, I told you that sending our knights to fight with your half-brother would have been a bad idea. At least, now you have men to provide for you and your people."

"I'm not an idiot," she warns him. "I know you're trying to turn us against each other. Or at least, to turn me against him. Jon would never..."

"Betray you?" Petyr laughs, a sharp caw. "Didn't he do so, already, when he took the crown that should have been yours by right?"

"It wouldn't have been mine," she says. She's given this some thought, time and again over the past few days. "Bran is the legitimate heir."

"A cripple." Petyr holds up a hand, sensing an imminent protest. "Your brother Bran might have made a wonderful king, but it doesn't matter. Right now, Westeros needs a ruler who isn't... diminished."

"Westeros has such a ruler," she reminds him. "And we have our own, and he's as strong and wise as we could have hoped."

"Do you hear yourself?" Petyr laughs. "I could easily picture myself in King's Landing, listening to you defending your intended, our dear Joffrey Baratheon. Strong and wise, indeed. Jon... Our king is losing this war, and you know it. We need to prepare a contingency plan."

"I will not leave Winterfell," she warns. The image shoots through her like an arrow, of empty halls and burning banners, a castle reduced to fallen timbers and mounds of snow.

"If... _When_ your king dies. I'll ride back to the Eyrie with the knights of the Vale. You should ride with us. It isn't abandoning your people, when your people chose a bastard as their ruler, over a beautiful and fearsome queen."

"Beauty doesn't win wars."

"Doesn't it?" he muses. "Did it not send your half-brother charging after Ramsay Bolton, did it not summon the knights of the Vale?"

Before she has time to retort, a rising clamour has her scrambling to her feet. Horns, the beating of hooves, and the screeching of the East Gate. She tilts her head back, catches a glimpse of pale blue dawn between the treetops.

Suddenly, her annoyance with Petyr transforms into gratitude, that his talk of treason should have distracted her from the long night.

"You look like a rabbit, ready to flee," he says, amused. "Off you run, then! Run to your king. Remember me when he complains about the war that he's losing."

"You wouldn't do any better in his place," she says, lingering despite an urgent need to bolt towards the castle.

"I'd never have let myself be put in his position. A king can fight a war from the rear-guard. No ruler in their right mind would ride ahead of their army."

"What does it matter," she snaps, throwing caution to the winds. "He can be foolish and brave. He has me to watch his back."

"He doesn't need someone to watch his back -- he needs a shield, stronger than even you can provide, my dear. Stronger than his will to die."

"That's enough," she warns.

She strides off before he can say anything else, and further corrupt the relief she felt upon hearing the returning army.

 

 

Winterfell has never been so crowded as it is now that the war has begun.

The castle seems to overflow with soldiers whenever the army gets ready to depart, and it's even worse when it returns, and a good portion of the troops walk through the gates, investing the courtyards and the keeps. Finding anyone among this roiling wave of horses and men is a hopeless endeavour. The soldiers' faces blur before Sansa's eyes, until all she can see is a chaos of mud and ash and blood and sleet.

She finds Brienne first, standing outside the armoury, with her fair hair plastered to her forehead and her sword still dangling from her hand, the blade shining in the morning light. Brienne bows her head in recognition. As Sansa makes to join her, she feels a familiar shape collide with her legs, wet fur and heavy muscle wrapping around her skirts.

Ghost is covered in soot, his coat greyer than white. The red eyes have never looked so much like embers, burrowed beneath these ashes. Sansa grips the fur at the back of the direwolf's head and follows Ghost into the fray, weaving her way through soldiers and knights and northerners and wildlings. Most of the men and women don't notice her, too preoccupied with the thought of a pallet, of a warm broth and a pitcher of ale. She just has to let Ghost shove them aside, and to follow in his tracks.

When they finally come upon Jon, Sansa is given a moment to watch him unnoticed, the hair gathered at the nape and the sturdy shoulders, the posture that can't quite decide if it means to be diffident or assertive. He's talking to Tormund, but when he sees her approach Tormund jolts Jon's shoulder, an amicable nudge that nearly sends the King to the ground. Jon totters on weary legs, attempts to latch onto Tormund for support and finds Sansa already there, her arms wrapped tight around his middle, her face buried in his neck. She can't help but crinkle her nose at the smell, but she wouldn't let go, not if the entire army of the Night's King threatened to run her through.

She has no thought of weakness in this moment. There's only Jon, and the startled sound he makes when she embraces him, and the whisper of her name on his tongue. There's so much relief in that whisper she could nearly hit him. If this is what he wanted, he could have had it a long time ago.

For he has been keeping his distances since the beginning of the war -- this is the first time she's touched him in weeks. At least he doesn't draw back. Beneath the blood and sweat, he smells like the winter beyond Winterfell, and like the scorched fields where they try to burn the bodies of the dead in the heat of battle, before they get a chance to rise again as wights.

"Your majesty? Food has been served for the troops in the Great Hall. The camps around Winterfell are..."

"Not now," Jon says, with enough desperation to give her pause. But there is no looking at his face, not with his hand heavy on the back of her head, or his lips on her neck. She'd lose her head to these soft, forgetful kisses and to the rough graze of his beard along her jaw.

She'd only need to turn her head to meet his mouth.

Jon seizes her face between both hands, his gloves leaving muddy imprints on her cheeks.

"Did you even sleep?" he asks, his thumbs tracing the purplish remnants of the long night.

"I can now," she says. "A few hours maybe? Let's go find you food, first."

Cries and whispers follow them to the hall, most of them congratulatory, although Sansa can tell from Jon's face there is little to congratulate him about. He won't let go of her, biting off a glove to hold her hand and then her waist, and then sitting her by his side in the hall. They look like conspiring children, huddled over his broth with their arms around each other and their heads pulled close.

Jon eats as if he hadn't eaten for days, with big bites of bread and a splattering of soup, like a soldier or a wildling, not like a king. But when he speaks, his words have the weight of his usual silences.

"We won't last another night."

This pronouncement is for her ears alone, and she mulls it over until he's done eating, certain as she is that there's something on his mind, and that when he decides to share it, she'll have to be ready.

 

 

There is to be a meeting of the King and his advisors, though it will happen later in the morning, after the various parties involved have had a few hours' worth of sleep. Sansa walks Jon to his room. The last time he rode back from a battle, he'd patted her shoulder once before listening in grave silence to her talk of razed villages and dwindling resources. They'd parted long before reaching his chambers. She can't fail but notice how he holds her arm now, and how he doesn't try to send her away, even as they reach his door.

Her earlier relief has vanished. All she can feel now is wariness, so instinctive it's nearly painful. She's guessed his intentions long before they sit down in front of his fireplace and he begins to speak.

"You should leave," he says. She can read in his posture the impulse to recline, and the effort it takes to resist it, as he leans towards her and takes her hand. "Go south. Go to the Eyrie. Keep writing to Daenerys Targaryen - send some of your knights to her, maybe a few soldiers... Send Davos and Lyanna. At the Eyrie, you can hold on a while longer, even if..."

"Jon. I'm not leaving."

"Sansa, we're losing. We can't go on like this, burning our own lands, burning our own men. There's a new wight for every wight we kill. We have two swords of Valyrian steel, a handful of daggers... When I think of the dragonglass we lost at Hardhome... I'm just sending men to their deaths. And condemning them to being killed twice over. It's a hard bargain when you know you've got a chance, but we haven't got one. You have to leave - I _need_ you to leave."

"Littlefinger said the same thing."

She doesn't know what she expected with this remark - to annoy him, maybe? But he looks as sad as ever. He was probably frowning when he came out of the womb, she reflects, a little king in the making, burdened from birth with the fate of others, of a whole world that he knew nothing about, but would die to protect.

"I'll never trust him, but on this matter he's right," Jon says. "Follow him to the Eyrie - take some of my men, not just the knights of the Vale. Take Brienne. And when the day comes, there'll be Valyrian steel between you and the White Walkers."

She looks at him with wide, guileless eyes, though her mind is working fast. "You're saying I won't see you again. When you march out..."

"Tonight."

"Tonight?" she exclaims. "But you only just came home!"

"If we don't ride out tonight, they'll reach the Long Lake. And then it's a straight path to Winterfell - we don't know the extent of the wards that protect the castle. We lost Last Hearth last night, and all the villages north of the Last River fell in the nights before that. All we've been doing is delay them."

He sighs, rubs his eyes. Even in the light of the fire, he seems dreadfully pale.

"I'm the king of winter and ruin," he says, with a dispirited smile. "All hail."

Sansa is silent, already weighing the words of the next message she'll send south. Tyrion said they would help and send troops, but that was weeks ago, and no word has come since then, to confirm the departure of these troops, or the number of soldiers, or the nature of their weapons. Following Jon's instructions, Sansa wrote time and again about the dragonglass, but Tyrion made no mention of it in his letter. Neither did Theon, who promised to plead her case with the  
Queen, but who also reminded her that he'll consider himself banished from the North as long as Jon is alive.

"What are you thinking about?" Jon's sad smile changes, becomes the strange startled smile that's hers alone. "I can tell you're planning something."

"I'm thinking of the Eyrie," she lies. "Of my cousin. Here's another marriage option we should be thinking about."

"Me and Robin?" Jon says.

She's so unused to him being anything but grim that for a moment, she can only stare.

"I'm sorry," Jon sighs, the smile falling from his face. "I don't know where that came from. Exhaustion brings out the worst in me."

"I don't think you two would be well-matched," Sansa says, hesitantly. Starks trying to joke - the thought is absurd. She has a vision of two fawns trying to walk, unfolding their slender legs and then tumbling back down amidst the ferns of the forest. "Robin can be... Capricious. You wouldn't have the patience."

"You can be capricious, too," Jon says.

"Are you saying we'd be well-matched?"

They smile at each other. For a tenuous moment, the war and the wights and the long nights of fighting and waiting recede, and it's only the warmth of the fire on their hands, and some fragment of their childhood, recaptured and made golden in the early morning light.

"Will you leave, then?" Jon asks, not one to enjoy happiness when there's despair to mull over.

"If I agree to leave, and you think you're about to die... You could at least give me something to remember you by."

Jon has a little huff of self-deprecation.

"I walked right into this one, didn't I?"

And though she wanted to believe she had no heart left to break, that wry tone is like a dagger through her chest. She nearly feels guilty for the deception she's about to commit.

"What do you want?" he asks. "If it's in my power, you can have it."

"Your honour," she says. "That's what I want."

She can see him hesitating, but it's a decision he'd made before she gave her answer, and he's not one to renege on a promise. With a sound of leather sliding against leather he's at her feet, his hands curving around her waist. Sansa goes willingly, edges towards the edge of the chair and leans down to kiss his brow and then his mouth. It's nothing like the quick, impulsive kiss she dealt him in the courtyard, trying to prove a point. It's nothing like Petyr's commandeering kisses, either -- an offer hiding a demand hiding a claim. This time she's tried to think this through, only to realize that she has no idea what she's doing, that it's one thing to ensnare a wolf and another to deal the killing blow. She's too nervous at first, risking only a mere brush of the lips, finding his mouth pliant under hers. His beard scratches her chin, and there's that smell again, of sweat and snow and burning things.

Jon draws back slightly, giving her a considering look. It's in his nature that he wants with caution, and gives before he takes. He's thrumming with energy all the same, and the hand on her waist trembles. It could be the aftershock of the battle. His actions are governed by exhaustion, laced with desperation. She can't tell if he'll kiss her again, or fall dead at her feet.

"I wish I could keep you here," she whispers. "We would never leave Winterfell. We would never leave this room."

And to think how much it had mattered, when he had given her their father's chambers. Now she'd gladly stay in this much smaller room, with the draughty window and the perpetual musty smell, if only he would let her hold him in his sleep.

"I can't give you that," he says.

"I know."

He reaches for her hands, holds them between calloused fingers.

"Here's your parting gift," he whispers.

Like he would tell her about some rare creature, the softness of his voice in itself a warning -- don't scare it off, blink and you'll miss it.

Then he leans over their clasped hands, and kisses her.

Sansa forgets to breathe, holds onto his hands and wonders if she knows him, more than as a memory -- if truly she knows him at all. There'd been snow in him when he was a boy, and in the man she's often felt ice, straightening his spine and guiding his sword. But there's no coldness in that kiss. It feels like the fire in the hearth has taken root inside them both. She can feel it roaring inside her and she can sense it on his tongue. It's the warmth in his voice whenever he talks to her, now slipping through her teeth, and kindled to a blaze.

Before she knows it she's letting herself slide off the chair, fingers grasping at his belt for support, trying to get as close as she can. Without meaning to, in the ensuing shuffle of bodies coming together and hands getting tangled in hair, she bites his lip and he groans, deep in his throat. So she goes and bites him again, harshly this time, just for the headiness of that choked-off sound.

"Are you satisfied?" he mumbles, nuzzling her nose.

The tenderness of the gesture causes her eyes to snap open. The guilt she'd cast aside with disdain returns to torment her, until she can do nothing but speak, her hand twitching inside his.

"I lied. I lied, Jon."

He pulls back, just enough to get a good look at her. In a gesture she's coming to love and fear, he frames her face between his hands, and peers into her eyes.  
"About what?"

"I'm not leaving. I can't." She takes a steadying breath. When she speaks again, her voice is strong and sharp, a steely point sliding between his ribs, searching for his heart. "You will survive this night," she tells him. "And the one after this one, and the one after that. Because you'll know that I'm in Winterfell, and that you can't allow the castle to fall."

"You tricked me," Jon says. He sounds genuinely hurt. "Is this what you want?" he asks. "For us to maybe get a few more nights, and then we both die? And why would you lie? Just for a kiss? That's a cruel and childish game you're playing."

"I want us both to _live_ ," she tells him. "Look at me, Jon. _Look_ at me. You have to stop avoiding me, you have to stop denying yourself. We could have a home here, and if the war ends, then you can ignore me, if that's what you want. But not now. I'll get you your dragons and your dragonglass. But you have to hold on. Make me the reason you hold on."

"You have no idea what you're asking," he sighs, and rises to his feet.

He walks away from the hearth and in silence, he begins to undress. She watches as the belt and scabbard fall to the ground, soon joined by the many pieces of his armour. It's not until his shirt is hanging loose, the collar open onto a frustrating sliver of pale skin, that he looks up, and finds her still sitting on the floor, surrounded by the crumpled folds of her direwolf dress.

"I'll sleep until the meeting. Have them feed Ghost if they can find him."

Sansa scrambles to her feet, her face aflame, with the memory of his mouth like poison on her tongue. She shuts the door behind her and leans against it, trying to make sense of her thoughts. It was a mistake to think that she could control this. Whatever giddiness she felt has been supplanted by worry and want. It'll never be enough now - she must have him, as a king or as a bastard or as a dead man walking. The mere thought of him leaving again makes her weak in the knees.

"Is he a wolf in bed, too?"

Sansa glances up sharply. Petyr rounds the corner, advancing on her with that oddly graceful gait that he has, as light on the paved floor as it would be in the snow.

"Don't," she says, stepping away from Jon's door.

"I'm just repeating what they say," Petyr shrugs, the sharp curve of his smile slightly mellowed by the pale light of dawn.

"The clients of your brothel?" she asks, arching an unimpressed eyebrow. 

"The people of Winterfell," he corrects. "Some are loyal to your family. Others regret the Boltons. On both sides, there are people saying that you bed wolves. It just made me... curious. About the mating habits of wolves, and of dead men."

"Sometimes, you seem to forget that I'm a wolf, too."

"Do I? It seems to me you're the forgetful one, my dear. Or do wolves mate with their own kin? Unless you two are Targaryens, and I wasn't aware of the fact."

"Stop!"

She glances back at Jon's door. There's no doubt that he's sleeping behind it, rather than listening in to their conversation. She can picture it easily - the tense set of his shoulders, even in sleep, and the disorder of his hair on the pillow. But it feels wrong, nonetheless, to be talking about him a few feet away from his bed.

"I meant to talk to you," she says. "I'm not leaving for the Eyrie."

"You're not?"

She has to give this to him -- he may be caustic at times, but he never condemns her actions outright.

"I'm not. But you are, and not for the Eyrie. I want you to go south, to seek out Daenerys Targaryen and bring back an army."

"You seem to believe that I'd do this," Petyr says. "I wonder why."

It seems so simple to her. Petyr wants her and Jon loves her and the both of them would move mountains - armies - kingdoms, for her sake alone.

And Petyr would sell her to further his goals, too, but at this point, that's just another thing she can use to stir him.

"I know what you want," she reminds him. "This vision of yours won't come true if we hide in the Vale. You need to fight for this kingdom -- you need to fight for me. I know you win your battles with words. So I want you to talk to Daenerys Stormborn."

She makes to leave, knowing what his answer will be. She hears him when she's halfway down the corridor, like a soft exhale on the back of her neck.

"Of course, my queen."

An involuntary shiver of pleasure causes her to quicken her step. There is no telling if the title was meant as a term of endearment, or as a promise. Perhaps it was both.

 

 

The army departs at nightfall. Though the troops have had little time to rest, most of the soldiers were able to eat and drink. The food will keep them  
standing. The alcohol, meanwhile, will keep them walking in the right direction - it would be all too simple for these men to turn and flee a battlefield where they know they might be killed, or, worse, turned into a wight. So a good portion of the army is drunk, and restless, and loud.

With such a crowd standing between her and Jon, a farewell is out of the question - even as she stays clear of the troops mustered near the main gates, she overhears lewd comments, and one of the men tries to grab a hold of her waist. This causes Brienne to slam the pommel of her sword into the man's helmet, hard enough that his knees crumple. Brienne lifts him by one of his leather straps and plants him back on his feet.

"We can't afford to waste any men," she tells him. "Otherwise I'd have broken your wrist. Apologize to my lady."

Sansa gets her apology, but it doesn't mean much, swallowed as it is by the surrounding cacophony of boots and hooves and the drunken fragments of song and the clanging of suits of armour. The troops exit the courtyard to swell the ranks of the soldiers who have spent the day camping beyond the walls of the castle. Sansa climbs to the battlements, where she is soon joined by Lyanna Mormont. Together they watch the army leave.

"There were more this morning," Lyanna muses. Her eyes barely reach the top of the wall.

"Did they run south, you think?" Sansa asks. The Lady Mormont unsettles her, with her sharpness so like a hawk's, in a tilt of the head and a considering slant of the eyes. Sansa's wariness is tinged with outright distrust - she has yet to forgive Lyanna for naming Jon her king when she was standing right _there_.

"If you checked the pantry, you'd find a few soldiers there, gorging on our supplies. Could we trust one of these knights of yours to watch the granaries?"

"I'll send one," Sansa says. She has one in mind, a sturdy-looking man whom she'd once seen with Brienne and Tormund, engaged in a lively exchange about swords and bears. Anyone who can get along with them both, she figures, must be in equal parts honourable, and valuable in a fight.

"You should sleep," Lyanna says. "You look dreadful. I'll do your rounds tonight. Comfort your subjects, and whatever it is that you usually do."

Sansa has a hard time picturing Lyanna comforting anyone, especially the downtrodden population of the castle. But she nods, murmurs her thanks, and heads slowly back towards the main courtyard, already thinking of heavy furs and downy pillows.

"There's people approaching the gate, my lady!"

Davos hastens towards her across the courtyard. Sansa halts in her tracks. Briefly she staggers, her exhaustion draping over her like a blanket. The muddy snow blurs before her eyes. Davos is instantly at her side, catching a hold of her arm to steady her.

"I apologize," he says. "I'll take care of this."

"How many?" Sansa asks. Now that she has noticed the extent of her fatigue, she has the impression of moving through high banks of snow. She thinks back to the icy river, and of Theon seizing her arm. Onwards, always onwards, to Jon and to safety.

"Only two," Davos says. "One of them is unable to walk."

Sansa's blood begins to pound in her ears. She speaks before she has had time to weigh her decision, spurred on by some foolish hope.

"Open the gates."

For a brief moment, she understands Jon, riding alone towards an army of thousands in the hope of saving at least one member of their doomed family.

And yet, for the second time that day, her foolishness is rewarded, for it is indeed Bran who comes through the gates. He looks older, and so much like Arya and her father, with his rigorous northern features and his dark hair, that she stumbles in her haste to get to the makeshift sledge, and ends her course on her knees, her arms thrown around his neck.

"We had to wait beyond the Wall, or Bran would have drawn them across."

It's a girl speaking, tall and stern, but very young, too, with a remnant of summer quivering at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

"When the Wall fell, we started going south," the girl goes on. "We meant to avoid the castle, but we saw the Stark banners... We don't want to draw them to you, but if you can give us a few supplies, we'll be on our way."

"I thought you were dead," Sansa mumbles against Bran's hair, feeling his arms tighten around her neck.

"You can't be thinking of leaving again," Davos says. "Come inside. We'll get you warm. And you must be starving. Have you been on the road since the Wall fell?"

"Not the road," the girl says. "We had a horse for a while, but we lost it near the lake..."

Reluctantly, she agrees to follow Davos towards the Great Keep, though she stops every few steps to look back at Bran, as if she can't stand to leave him out of her sight.

Apart from Sansa and Bran, the courtyard is nearly empty.

"I saw the army leave," Bran says. "I saw Ghost."

It's the first words he's spoken since the beginning of the war.

They look at each other. Something passes between them - the shadow of dead direwolves, the ghost of a burning house.

"You're home," Sansa tells him.

And she means it, though a part of her can't help but wonder what this return will mean. She remembers her protest, earlier that day. _Bran is the legitimate heir._

She embraces him once more, willing these confused thoughts to subside, and eager to hide herself from her brother's eyes. Bran had always seemed wiser than his years, but now his otherworldly gaze seems to hint at darker things. Change and loss and unwanted truths. Even if it's only for a moment, Sansa means to hold onto Bran like he's a piece of the past, and not some ill omen for the future. So she tightens her hold, and tries to ignore how fragile they sound, with their quickened breaths like frightened animals.

"You're safe," she whispers, because for a moment at least, it's the truth. "We're home."


	3. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's not my castle," Jon says. "And we're not setting the army on fire."

Jon opens his eyes to a starry sky. It's the cold that wakes him, and the water. He's lying on his back in what he thinks must be a puddle of melted snow. But when he shifts, trying to lift his waterlogged limbs, he realizes that he's lying in the riverbed, close enough to the shore that he isn't fully submerged, with his back scraping against broken stones, and wet weeds stroking his neck.

The battle can still be heard, but it's distant like a dream, and if it wasn't so cold he'd be tempted to stay here, underneath the stars, sheltered by the black spires of the firs that line the riverbank.

He drags himself onto the shore, crawling on his elbows and then rising to his knees. The sky is red in the northwest, beyond the forest. The wind blows away from the river and into the trees, chasing away the smoke, but the forest is burning, Jon can smell it now. Charred wood and charred flesh.  
He searches the ground for his sword, though he already knows he won't find it. At best it's lying on the battlefield, at worst, it must have sunk to the bottom of the lake when he lost his footing on the frozen bank. One of the remaining two swords against an army of White Walkers, and he's managed to lose it.

As he prepares to head back into battle, gripping a dagger that won't do much but keep the wights at bay, he notices a bright light at some distance on the water, like a strange funeral pyre. Up until now, the river had seemed like a dark and empty chasm, a salutary rampart against the fire. But as the bright flame draws closer, it sheds light on an unsettling scene.

At first, he thinks the things are logs, a consequence of the fire. And then gradually, he begins to make out shapes, men and horses and their severed limbs, such a vast tapestry of carnage that it's hard to tell the sodden cloth and wasted flesh from the water that keeps them afloat.

Jon stares in mute horror, though his inaction doesn't last more than a heartbeat. He might dwell on the image in the morning, if he's still alive by then.  
For now, he wades into the water, and seizes the first corpse he can reach. Slowly, with aching arms and a mouthful of smoke, he pulls it onto the shore. After the first, he goes back for another, and another. He's struggling to part the tangled bodies of a wildling and a wight when a group of soldiers emerge from the forest. Jon counts four men, outlined in smoke. One of them sees him by the river, and after an inaudible interlude, they clamber down onto the bank. With their help, it's another ten or so bodies that are pulled ashore. When this is done, one of the men takes a torch to the pyre.

"We're falling back," says another, tall and pale, with deep-set eyes and a bitter mouth. A northerner, Jon would bet his life on it. It's in the pitch-black hair, and in the rough-hewn face. There's no telling to which house the man belongs. His suit of armour has been mangled beyond recognition.

"We can't lose the lake," Jon says, because it has to be said. He has no illusions. The lake is lost. It was lost when he looked back and saw a river of corpses where there should have been water and the reflection of stars.

"We've lost the lake," says the soldier with the torch. One of Lyanna's, with a bear on his breast, and kind eyes shining beneath bushy eyebrows. "Should we withdraw towards Winterfell, your Grace?"

The other three step back when they hear the title, and take a second look at the dark-haired youth with the face full of muck and the singed sleeves. One of them even bows. The gesture seems futile, and absurd, when the battle is all but lost and there's a fire rumbling behind them.

Jon looks up at the sky again. Now that they stand within the shadow of the forest, the sky isn't so clear. The stars are hidden behind a thick curtain of smoke. But he feels confident enough to say, "The sun's coming up. We won't go as far as Winterfell today." He looks back at the river, at the indistinct shape of the bodies they couldn't pull out. "Let's go," he says. "What's left in the river will have to be torched by sundown."

Even as he says it, it sounds farcical. "By sundown." That used to mean, in twelve hours. The night already seemed never-ending back then. Now the days go by in a matter of hours, and before they know it, it's time to draw out their swords and jump back into the fray.

Jon flexes his empty hand, imagines the pommel of Longclaw, the reassuring weight of the sword and the sharp line of the blade, guiding him ever onwards. He casts a look about for Ghost, too, wondering where the wolf went. It's hard not to resent his absence, but in this moment his annoyance is nearly a comfort. It's better than thinking the worse, than picturing Ghost lying dead on the field, his white fur painted red.

"To the camps," he calls, and leads the men into the forest, despite the fact that he's never felt so much like walking the other way. If he could, he'd wade back into the river, bodies or not, as far as he could go. Then the noise of the fire would dim, and there'd once again be stars above his head.

As he walks and the snow billows around him, he tries to find shelter in a dream of warmth.

Here is the fire in his room at Winterfell, and Sansa is sewing, piecing together the black and white shreds of their torn banner. Ghost slumbers on the rug at her feet, keening in his sleep. Every so often, she'll look down at him, and the corners of her lips will lift into a soft smile.

In these dark hours before the dawn, the vision seems at once impossible and painfully real, as if a quick step would take him miles. And the forest would be a castle, and suddenly he'd stumble over her threshold, with his wet clothes and his ashen hands and his cold, cold mouth.

In the woods, they run into a single wight, a disoriented crone. The torchbearer sets her aflame, and they walk on, keeping the fire to their right, holding their gloved hands to their mouths so they won't breathe in the smoke.

Jon sends one of the men ahead to scout for the rest of them, and eventually he returns, saying he's heard hooves, maybe six horses, maybe twelve. They could wait for the riders, but that means standing still, and the forest is too silent for that. When they don't speak, it seems like something is preying on them, lying in wait under the snow. When they do speak, the snow lends a strange echo to their voices, as if they were speaking from the inside of a tomb.

So they walk on, trying not to slip on the trampled path, focusing on the sound of their footsteps, and then on the distant rumble of the horses' hooves.  
Jon wonders if the riders are looking for him. They might be, though they could also be headed towards the battlefield, following an order he himself gave to the troops, early on during the war. _Every wight must be killed, every body must be burnt._

The forest fire might help the riders this time. There's no doubt many perished during the blaze, including some of the soldiers. Jon had sent a warning to the villages south of the forest, enjoining them to stay well away from the battle. He can only hope that they listened.

The fire will have ruined quite a few lands, too. His advisors have told him, time and again, that he doesn't have a choice. The fires protect them against the White Walkers. They give the army time to recover, and they diminish the number of wights they'll have to face. But Jon has also heard a whisper of discontent coming from the villages, where the fields are the only hope of a life beyond the dreary winter. And whenever he's on the battlefield, he finds an echo of this disquiet in the land. He might have seen incredible things, death made life and victory against all odds. But it doesn't make it any easier to believe that this dead earth will ever heal, no matter how often the maester at Winterfell tells him that the earth feeds on fire, that it feeds on blood. The Targaryen words may be a formidable battle cry, but they're no stable foundation for a kingdom.

The riders irrupt into their clearing sooner than Jon would have thought, as if the snow had distorted these sounds, too, and muted the cavalcade until the last possible moment. They're led by Brienne of Tarth, who sits atop a fresh horse in a silvery suit of armour, like a picture from a book of tales. The thought of Sansa springs unbidden to his mind. Oh, how she used to long for such a vision made flesh.

"Your Grace."

She's so happy to have found him that it shows. With her bright eyes and her red cheeks, she looks as if she'd just chugged a great tankard of ale. Behind her, Pod does something that looks suspiciously like a hand wave.

"It's good to see you," Jon sighs, equally relieved, all the more so as he can see that she, for one, is still carrying her sword.

"Their Lordships wanted to warn the castle of your disappearance, your Grace," she says. "I told them they should wait."

She sounds proud, like this misplaced trust is something to be valued, rather than a liability. _I could have died_ , he wants to tell her. _The gods know I keep wishing for it._

"Thank you," he says instead.

"May I offer my horse?"

"I can walk," Jon says quickly, before she has time to fully dismount. "It can't be far. You've got to ride on."

"The King can't be made to walk back to camp," another rider calls out.

It sounds deceptively like a reminder, as if they thought he'd forgotten his rank. They'd only be half-wrong. Would a king have stacked these bodies on the pyre? Would a king have lost his sword, and his footing, and fallen into a lake in the middle of a battle? And yet they trust him blindly -- as a wolf if not as a man, as a god if not as a king.

"The camps are about three miles south," Brienne is saying.

She's not addressing him, but the men who came with him from the river. He realizes that Podric has dismounted, and is trying to push the reins of his horse into his unresponsive hand. He accepts the reins, takes advantage of Pod's proximity to whisper, "Find my sword. South of the lake, by the bank..."

Pod's eyes widen, but he nods. Jon feels a stab of guilt -- it's a cruel request, when he knows Pod is the kind of boy who would gladly drink the lake if it were to help him fulfill his task. But on the other hand, it's the only way he can be sure the sword will be found.

Some complicated shuffle goes on, wherein Pod acquires a new horse, and another rider steps down and agrees to guide the soldiers to the camp. Jon tries not to see in this gesture of good faith a sign of how much his army has shrunken, that four soldiers should seem like a precious commodity, worth guarding at all costs.

After a ceremonial farewell, during which he has to refrain from spurring on the horse, he's finally able to ride off towards the camp.

The woods go past in a blur, the plain drawing ever nearer, and still Jon can't shake a feeling of apprehension. He hasn't dared ask Brienne about the state of his army, hasn't dared ask after Ghost, either -- certainly if Ghost was hurt he'd _feel it_...

When he emerges from the forest, all these thoughts disperse, joining the creeping mists that hover above the landscape. For as he looks upon the white hills that stretch all the way to Winterfell, beneath a downy grey sky, and as he catches the distant scent of the camp, burning evergreens and damp furs, it dawns on him, at last, that the day has come, and that they've made it through another night.

 

 

"She wouldn't let me ride with them. That woman."

Tormund shakes his head. Yet he doesn't sound annoyed: his default reaction to Brienne seems to be admiration.

"Send some of your men after the bodies in the river," Jon tells him. "Men who can swim. Any chance I can sleep before the Umbers and Glovers and the rest of them get a hand on me?"

"Both hands, if they can," Tormund grins. "Maybe if you make a run for it? They're probably sleeping right now, but they'll have put a man on the lookout in case you return. Shirking your responsibilities, are you?"

"I can barely stand," Jon protests, rather weakly.

They walk around a tent and come upon a group of men, huddled by a small fire. They're hugging their cups like their lives depend on whatever cheap brew they've managed to stash. And still they throw the cups aside when he goes by, and go down on both knees as if they expect to receive a blessing. Jon only smiles uneasily and walks on, trying to hide the heaviness of his tread, the fact that he can't walk quite straight.

"Keep doing that," Tormund says.

"What?"

"Making them think you died, and then coming back. Gives them a reason to worship you. Or to worship you more than they already do."

"I don't want to be worshipped," Jon mumbles, knowing it will fall on deaf ears. "How many men have we got left?"

"You don't want me to answer that. It won't help you sleep, and you look like you need it."

Jon stops, turns to face Tormund with as much resignation as he can muster. Inside he's all ice, paralysed and suffocating.

"How many?" he repeats.

"Four hundred? Maybe five, or six. The Cerwyns got cut off from the rest by the fire. I'd like to know who the fuck started that one. Didn't do us much good - split the army in two, left one side wide open to the White Walkers with no weapons to fight them... Don't you ever think we'd be better off just setting ourselves on fire? The whole fucking army. A great big wall of flames." He widens his arms in demonstration, looks up at the sky. "They'd see it all the way to that castle of yours."

"It's not my castle," Jon says. "And we're not setting the army on fire."

"Here," Tormund says, digging in his furs. "Have a drink. I saved you a swig or two."

Jon accepts the flask, mostly because he thinks it might help him sleep. Predictably, the drink burns a line of fire down his throat, and makes his eyes water. For some reason, it reminds him of Ygritte. Memories of another battle, of another pyre.

"I killed a crow last night," Tormund says, as the flask disappears back into his furs.

Whatever warmth the drink had brought back to Jon's limbs seems to desert him at once. The whole conversation they've had up to this point seems to reshape itself. Tormund's concern for their dwindling ranks, the offer of the flask - he'd been trying to cushion the blow.

"One of the crows we left at the Wall," Jon says.

They're entering the wildling camp, at the other end of which he hopes he'll find his tent. On most days, this camp is rowdier than the others, but it's silent now, as vacant and still as any crypt, the snow-covered tents looking like so many graves.

"Where's everyone?" he asks, momentarily distracted by the ominous sight. 

"Inside," Tormund says. "Can't you smell it? There's a snowstorm coming." 

"Fuck," Jon mutters, looking up at the swollen underbelly of the clouds, at the spiralling snowflakes that no longer look like pinpricks of white, but rather like feathers, as if a large bird had lost its plumage in a very strong wind. "Can we wait it out?" he asks.

"The Walkers won't wait it out," Tormund says. "So we probably shouldn't, unless we want them to come and gut us in our tents."

"How are we supposed to light fires in a blizzard?" Jon exclaims. He wonders how he could have been foolish enough to think that the previous night was the worst of them all - and how he could have thought the same of the night before that, and of the one before.

"Get some sleep," Tormund tells him. He sends a cordial insult to the man guarding Jon's tent, and the man runs off, probably to inform his lord that the King is alive.

"The crow you killed," Jon reminds him, brows furrowed. "Was it one of the men we left at the Wall?"

"It wasn't Edd, if that's what you're asking," Tormund shrugs. "But it doesn't make much of a difference, does it?"

"No, it doesn't."

Jon had shoved the Lord Commander's cape at Edd, far too relieved to be rid of it to really question what it would mean for Edd. Edd who'll never have the luxury of being relieved of his vows, and of starting his life anew.

"Ah, yeah, I forgot," Tormund says. "I've got some good news, too. The mudmen have come up from their swamps. Their lord wants to swear allegiance to you. Or talk to you. I haven't seen much of them yet, but I think there's a hundred men, maybe two."

Jon should probably feel relieved, and grateful, too. But this information comes too late, buried under the blizzard and the lost sword, and the dead crow, and Ghost's absence.

"They should have come earlier," he grumbles, knowing as he does that he'll regret this dismissal later, when people with a better hand at diplomacy are forced to soothe the ruffled feathers of his father's friends.

"I'll have someone translate that into a kingly speech," Tormund says, patting him on the shoulder. "You get some rest."

 

 

During the day, as he lies on his cot a few feet away from the rising storm, Jon dreams of the forest. Not the forest where they retreated after the battle, but the woods beyond Winterfell, a hilly maze of dark bark and white snow marked with a pattern of bird feet, where warm springs bubble up between the roots of trees.

In the dream he's hungry, and though he's aware of his surroundings, he seems to _smell_ the landscape more than he sees it. Fragrant spruce and the rich earthy smell between the roots when he rubs his muzzle against the snow, and something else, food, somewhere behind the hill, or inside it. A quick patter of feet and the frantic thump of a tiny heart. Rabbit.

He clambers up the hill, rear legs skidding against the slope, but when he reaches the top he halts. He thought he could get the rabbit on the other side, catch it when it came out. But another wolf beat him to it. _She had the wind on her side_ , Jon thinks, in a brief moment of clarity, though the thought soon vanishes as the beast returns. There's a strange sort of comfort to inhabit Ghost's body, to be a creature of supple strength and raw instincts. He watches the wolf from the top of his small incline, confident that he could take her on. Ghost is slightly reluctant to dispute the food she's rightfully earned. But it's winter, and there's not as much game as there used to be this side of the forest. The rabbit is the first prey he's found since the day before. There was dead meat on the field during the night, but he wouldn't risk it. It smelled foul - it had been corrupted by the white shadows.

Jon's about to leap onto the wolf, when he notices that she's not alone. Her pack has come to join her, slinking between the trees. Silver fur and russet fur, and two black wolves with mangy coats and a bad lilt to their steps. The she- wolf is much bigger than the lot of them. As she raises her head from her broken prey to cast him an appraising glance, he understands why. _Sister_ , his senses scream, his fur standing on end. Ghost lowers his head, tail swinging back and forth. He emits a strangled whine, so human-like it might have come from Jon's mouth. _Nymeria_.

She clambers up the hill, the rabbit still between her jaws. She sets it down in favour of sniffing Ghost's neck, her body still thrumming with hostility, tail raised and teeth bared. And then suddenly she's snapping her jaws at him, and leaning back, and growling before she springs again.

Though it's been a long time since they were pups, neither of them has forgotten that game, or could ever forget it. It's as much instinct as it is memory. They roll about in the snow, Nymeria's jaws locked around Ghost's and with Ghost pawing at her legs. The tumble sends them skidding down the slope in a revolving blur of white and grey fur. At the foot of the hill, they collide with a hard layer of packed snow that forces them apart. But in the blink of an eye they're back on their feet, and Nymeria - the grown wolf and the fierce pack leader - adopts a playful stance, growling in invitation. Ghost springs forth obligingly, and the game resumes in a flurry of snow.

Jon has trouble telling his feelings from Ghost's, though the wild joy that has his direwolf bouncing about and snapping his jaws at Nymeria's hind legs must belong to them both. As hazy as his thoughts may be, it doesn't take much effort to remember the last time he was this happy and carefree. _Winterfell. Arya._

Ghost and Nymeria might have forgotten about the rabbit, but the other wolves haven't. If they're unwilling to seize the carcass in front of Nymeria, they can try to catch her attention. So one of them comes forth, slow and cautious, and lets out a prolonged whine, with its head hanging low.

Nymeria's ears perk up at that. After a last, regretful tug at Ghost's ear, she steps away, and goes to retrieve the rabbit. She has a duty to her pack, and Ghost is no longer a part of it.

Jon watches her go, with more relief than regret, and with some of that wild joy, too, still coursing though Ghost's limbs. Nymeria's alive, she's well. She remembers him.

Sometime after he's left the pack, he unearths a few rodents close to the ramparts of Winterfell. He falls upon them voraciously, his sharp teeth tearing at  
their cold fur. Their blood is hot on his tongue; it slides warm down his throat. It takes four or five of them for his hunger to abate. Then he snags the last one under his paw, and raises his head towards the gates. For a moment, he watches the castle, and the long line that stretches from the gate to the forest. The men walk slowly, with their heads hung low. They hold their arm across their faces, in a poor attempt at warding off the snow.

 _Gate_ , Jon tries to tell Ghost. _Follow them. Go in._

Ghost grasps the order far more easily than Jon would have thought, translating it into fragments of colour and sound and into a wide variety of smells. The kitchens at Winterfell, and the kennels. Better food than a frozen nest of field mice. Food if he hastens towards the gates, and also - flowers, and the sugary smell of lemon cakes. _Yes, Sansa_ , Jon thinks, relieved, elated. He lets himself be dragged further into the direwolf's head. He'll gladly sacrifice what little consciousness he has left, if it means he gets to stay a moment longer.

The wolf dashes past the line of people. He dashes past the guards at the gate. Most of them don't notice him, and the few who do aren't foolish enough to get in his way. On the other side of the gate, the courtyard is steeped in shadows. It's deceptively easy for a wolf to go unobserved, when everyone has pressing matters to attend to, and there are so many places to hide. Ghost dives under loaded carts and behind barrels. He sticks to the walls, to the silent edges of the distracted crowd. Before long he's inside the castle, having slipped through a service door. Once he's there, however, he seems to hesitate, confused by all manners of smells that Jon can't quite pick apart. When the wolf sets off again, it's not in a direction Jon would have expected.

They reach a closed door, at the top of a landing. Ghost doesn't move. He doesn't make a sound. Yet, somehow, someone in the room must have heard him, for the door opens a crack to reveal the face of a girl ( _moss weapon moss water salt salt salt_ , Ghost supplies him, which doesn't tell him much beyond the fact that the girl bears a grief too great to be concealed).

"It's your brother's wolf," she says.

"Let him in?"

Ghost slides past her legs, and there, half-buried under an enormous pile of furs, lies Bran, strange-faced, like a boy in a man's body, or his father's features made boyish.

"Ghost!" Bran calls, with that dark-eyed joy that's not very expansive, but all the more moving for being contained.

Ghost doesn't need any further invitation. Leaping onto the bed, he pads softly towards Bran and settles down at his side. Just as he has, many a time, in Sansa's bed - a thought that's not quite a thought, but a series of remembered sensations, of her hair on the pillow and of that smell of dried flowers, and of her hand clinging to his fur in the middle of a dream. Jon nearly flounders, then, drowning in that remembered smell. But Ghost is licking Bran's hand, not one to dwell upon fleeting memories, and Jon lets himself be brought back to the present. Bran laughs, a little strangely, like it's a thing he's forgotten how to do. The girl returns to her chair by the fire, her hand slowly letting go of the dagger at her belt.

"Meera?"

She doesn't answer, but she turns towards Bran with a questioning gaze.

"If I saw something," Bran says, thoughtful. "In a vision. About Jon. Do you think I should tell him?"

"I don't know," she says. The room falls silent as she thinks. "Jojen...," she tries. "Jojen wouldn't always share his visions. Sometimes the truth can do more harm than good, I think. I'm not... I'm not the right person to talk to about these things."

"You're the only person I can talk to," Bran says. "That makes you the right person."

They exchange a loaded glance. Bran seems like he would speak, but he holds back, having felt Ghost shift against him. The direwolf's tail wags against the rugs. His ears perk up. Bran turns towards the door, and sure enough, a few seconds later, they hear a light knock.

"Come in?" Bran says.

"I just wanted to see if you..." Sansa stops, staring at Ghost. "When... How did he get here?"

"Through the door?" Bran says. "He just came in."

"Is Jon...?"

"I don't think so."

"But if Ghost is here, doesn't that mean Jon could be hurt?" she insists, walking fully into the room and closing the door behind her. "He's never come back without him before."

"I don't think Ghost would leave Jon if he was hurt. Summer died defending me - and Grey Wind died protecting Robb, didn't he?"

"You're probably right," Sansa says. She hovers, casts an uncertain look in Meera's direction. Eventually, she steps closer and sits at the end of Bran's bed.  
They talk some more, but the wolf is once again more wolf than man, and he doesn't listen. He stretches upon the heavy furs that cover Bran's legs, and yawns, and slumps onto his side so he can rest against Sansa's leg. He growls in satisfaction when she begins to pet his head.

But even if Ghost submits to the rapture of it all, to this reunion of his stranded pack while Nymeria's smell still lingers on his fur, and to this petting that he craves without quite knowing why - whatever shred of Jon remains inside him is suspicious, and worried. This dream is far too good to be true. It feels like a consolation, a final wish granted by the gods to a dying man.

Suddenly it isn't enough to just lie between them, silent and watchful. Without thinking he tries to reach for Sansa, with his human hands. The link that tied him to Ghost severs abruptly. He wakes up alone on the hard cot, haggard and trembling.

It's already dark in the tent. Outside, the wind is howling. It takes Jon a moment to adjust, to remember how to work his human limbs. He'd fallen asleep still tangled inside his armour, and the rug he's slept upon is grey with ash and soggy with snow. If he closes his eyes, he can very nearly feel the warmth of the fire in Bran's room, and Sansa's fingers combing through his hair.

With a sigh, he chases the last remnants of the dream, and goes to retrieve his boots and his empty scabbard.

When he steps outside, he finds Pod waiting under the awning of the tent, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. It might be a trick of the light, but his lips look blue.

"How long have you been standing here?" Jon asks, aghast. He grabs a hold of the squire's shoulder and shoves him inside.

"I wasn't sure I'd find you before the battle, your Grace," Pod says. "I have several messages for you. My lady... The lady Brienne says some of the Cerwyn forces have returned. Fifty men?"

 _Two hundred more wights_ , Jon translates, knowing Brienne will have had the same thought.

"Ser Davos has brought in more horses from Winterfell, though most of them are plough horses. The crannogmen came with horses too, but they gave most of them to Lord Manderly's men. Lord Glover wants to know if the battle is to take place in the forest."

Jon can easily picture them stopping by his tent, one after the other, with Pod waiting there like a valiant sentinel. Brienne must have sent him, with the express purpose of watching over his sovereign's sleep.

"We should spare some of the horses," Jon says, half to himself. It's not the first time Brienne has used Pod as a messenger, and when it's only him and Pod, Jon tends to forget he's no longer in Castle Black, discussing strategies with Sam. They share an easiness of manner, Pod and Sam - a sort of gentle watchfulness. It seems to invite the voicing of thoughts.

"Your Grace?"

Not for the first time, Jon wishes he could tell them to omit the title. It's one thing to want to be recognized. It's another to go from being a bastard to a king with little time to adjust to the change.

"Lord Manderly's men will have to walk," Jon says. "I won't send what few horses we have left into a blizzard. Let's go. I want us to be north of the forest by nightfall."

"Your sword, your Grace," Pod says then, and extracts a bundle from inside his cape, wrapped in several layers of frazzled cloth.

Jon stares as Pod unwraps the sword, revealing the white pommel that his hand knows so well --

"Where did you find it?"

"In the lake," Pod says. "Close to the bank, where you fell, your Grace."

Jon accepts the sword, and holds it reverently, palms flat under the blade. "Thank you," he says, raising his eyes to meet Pod's earnest gaze. "There's a  
number of soldiers tonight who'll owe you their lives. Including me."

Pod seems pleased, and utterly speechless, so Jon slides the sword into its scabbard. The familiar weight nearly makes him smile.

"One more night," he says, and they step outside.

 

 

Jon knows long before the White Walkers appear that this night will be the longest and the coldest since the beginning of the war. There's no lighting a fire in the middle of a forest when the forest is the battleground. There's no lighting a fire in the middle of a blizzard.

Every soldier has left the camp with a torch, but few of them are still lit. The woods are a maze of black lines and dark blue voids. Sometimes a translucent blade appears between the trees, and a man falls. The others go on tripping over their own feet in the near-complete darkness. No doubt some of them will fall upon their own swords.

Still Jon shouts, and urges them on, even when the wind slips past his teeth and pushes icy fingers down his throat.

"Keep walking! KEEP WALKING!"

There are wights ahead of them, and wights behind them, too, because they can't kill them all and Jon refuses to fall back. This whole war has been about keeping the Walkers at bay a moment longer, delaying the inevitable defeat. He won't give them the forest the night after he's given them the lake.  
And so they march on, and he strikes down shadows that used to be men and keeps his eyes peeled, looking for the glassy silhouettes of the White Walkers. They tend to hold back during the first assault, waiting for the wights to thin out the ranks.

When they do emerge, the butchery will begin, for those few who wield Valyrian steel and dragonglass must not be harmed, and so dozens of men will  
throw themselves in the Walkers' path as Jon and Brienne and a handful of others try to take down at least one of their elusive foes.

At first, Jon and Davos and half a dozen lords would stay up after the battles, trying to devise a strategy. If they could find where the White Walkers retreated during the day, and attack them in the daylight, perhaps... If they could take out the Night's King, perhaps...

Those days are long gone. Now it's only a matter of survival, and Jon drives Longclaw into the neck of a beast, hog or bear - severs it from the decomposed body and does not wait for the dismembered parts to convulse before he walks on.

They're losing, but they have been losing for days - years, decades, maybe. At one point, as he's picking himself up after a particularly harsh fall on the frozen ground, Jon is even surprised to see some of the men charge past him, booted feet all but flying over the snow. As he sees their backs recede in the distance, he understands - these are the crannogmen, for whom this night is the beginning of the fight. Their confidence bolsters the rest of the troops for a while, but after that, the merciless trudge resumes, kicking and stabbing and tripping over roots, trying not to murder a friend in the dark.  
Then the blizzard finds its way past the trees, and they're no longer fighting the wights alone but also the wind and its columns of whirling snow.  
Jon has to stop walking to try and wipe the snow from his eyes. The sight that greets him when he manages to do so nearly makes him wish he'd gone blind. Most of the men around him have gone down, either felled by the wights or by the white storm. Some simply elected to sit down at the foot of the nearest tree, with hunched shoulders and their arms pulled close to their chests. There, they wait for the blizzard to stop, even if that means they'll freeze to death.

Jon tries to pull one of the men to his feet. He's stumbled into a clearing it seems, though he can barely see what's around him. The soldier rises slowly, holding onto Jon's arm. He's still clutching his sword, which Jon takes as a good sign. He can't be sure the man will fight, though, and he's reluctant to step forward into the clearing, where the wights can attack them from all sides. It's no use talking, either - not with this raging gale.

With every intake of breath, Jon wonders if this is it, at last. The battle he won't walk away from. He reasserts his grip on the sword. Suddenly if feels foolish to hesitate, when he has been waiting for this moment for months, and there hasn't been a single dawn that didn't taste like a betrayal.

He takes a step and goes still. A large shadow has fallen upon the clearing. He takes another step and the shadow grows, stretching from the clearing to the line of the trees. The men on the ground don't move, but the wights _scamper_ , like insects scurrying away from under a lifted rock. Jon looks up just as the dragon alights in the clearing, exhaling a short burst of flames that catches one of the wights in the back.

Like many, Jon had dreamt of dragons as a child. Robb and him often played at being Targaryens, and there'd been a wooden dragon in Robb's room, with articulated wings and a sleepy-eyed stare. _How stupid we were_ , Jon thinks now, as the dragon lands in a whirl of snow, folding wings that seem to span forests and centuries, far more than this narrow circle of snow between the trees. Jon doesn't dare move. He's come out too far to retreat unobserved, and he'd rather not be struck in the back like the wight. A stone's throw away, the dragon stretches its neck in a seamless realignment of pointed scales. It surveys the clearing, and then lowers its head towards Jon, red eyes pinning him in place.

Around them, the snow isn't falling as wildly as it was minutes ago, as if the creature had displaced it somehow, with a movement of its wings, or by the very fact of its incongruous presence. But for all that the clearing is quiet, it seems to resonate with unspoken tension. The dragon may be slow-moving, but it isn't motionless. The great body rises and falls with every sulphur-scented breath. Its ribcage contracts and expands like chainmail. With the great head a handbreadth away from his face, Jon has a dizzying view of the dragon's maw, and of the thick ropey tendrils of blood that hang from its serrated jaws.

He's still holding Longclaw, but it's a pitiful comfort. If he had both hands on the hilt, he might stand a chance, but as it is, his one-handed grip won't be enough to pierce the hide of a dragon. Besides, he wouldn't do it. If this is indeed one of the last three remaining dragons in Westeros, the beast's life has more value than his own. And the longer he stands in place, watching red glide over gold and the reflection of the woods in the dragon's eyes, the more he fears that he isn't just facing a living creature, but also a fragment of the old world. Something that should have died, but didn't, and went on gaining strength through the weaving of stone and blood and bone into a seemingly unbreakable armour.

In the end, Jon isn't the one who looks away first. The soldier behind him crumples, and the dragon's eyes follow the man's fall. And as Jon tries to decide what he should do - stand his ground or run - the dragon lowers its head. The heavy body sinks low.

The gesture leaves little room for doubt, no matter how incomprehensible it may be. It's a bow and an invitation, the dragon's back exposed as if it expects  
Jon to vault over the nearest blood-red wing. Jon is reminded, absurdly, of Ghost, whose red eyes have always held in their depths a seemingly impossible mixture of menace and trust.

Eventually, he does the only thing that seems appropriate. Bowing his head slightly, he takes a step back, and then another, his eyes never straying from the dragon's. He keeps the sword pointed at the ground, so his retreat will not be misconstrued. He's just within the line of the trees when the dragon unclenches its jaws, and emits an ear-splitting shriek. Jon nearly drops the sword, spine straightening instinctively as if that would help him withstand an attack. But the dragon's attention is elsewhere. Another cry answers, somewhere else above the trees, lower and longer like an enormous war-horn. The dragon lifts its head, searching the skies, and then takes off gradually, the rush of wind from its wings threatening to flatten Jon to the ground.

He takes the few steps that separate him from the clearing, though he doesn't dare leave the shelter of the trees. A remnant of well-buried fear catches up with him as he leans against the nearest tree, his hand shaking upon the sword. He watches the dragon's ascent, the strange grace of the enormous body as it finds its balance between the slow-beating wings. Finally, the dragon disappears above the trees. It feels like a veil had been lifted from Jon's senses. Suddenly he can hear the wind howling in the clearing, and he can feel it across his face, like a thousand needles piercing his skin. There's snow in his eyes, and when he wipes them with the back of a hand, he catches a glimpse of his men, half-buried in snow. On the other side of the clearing, he thinks he might have seen something move; the wights returning, maybe.

And even if he hadn't been haunted by a vision of red eyes and scales, he would still have missed the White Walker. He's been fighting in a haze for days now, exhausted and half-blind from the wind and snow. The White Walker must have clung to the shadow of the trees, waiting until the last possible moment to step away from the trunk that concealed it. Suddenly, the darkness behind Jon is suffused with light, pale blue and chilling, like the inside of a crevasse. He lifts the sword to parry, knowing as he does that he'll be too late.

The forest echoes with the sound of breaking ice. Carried by his momentum, Jon finds himself plunging forward even as the White Walker dissolves, Longclaw slicing through the air. Steel meets steel. Wielding the blade that saved his life is a young man. In the dark and with the falling snow, Jon can't make out any distinguishing features, but the boy is lithe of build, wearing light armour.

"They're coming back," the boy shouts, seeking to be heard above the roaring wind.

 _Not a boy_ , Jon realizes, startled. _It's a girl. A girl with a sword of Valyrian steel._

She points the sword towards the clearing, where the wights are advancing again, dead limbs cutting through the snow. In the clearing, several of the soldiers who had given up and sat down are now moving. Some manage to rise, though most of them are content to crawl. Slowly, they begin to make their way towards the trees. From where Jon stands, it's hard to tell if the men are clinging to life, or if they've already joined the ranks of the wights. In doubt, he raises his sword, and the girl does the same. It looks far too long for her, though she holds it well enough, and doesn't let the strain show.

"We need to take out that horse," she shouts, the tip of her sword pointed towards one of the wights.

Jon can barely make out a small shape seated above a much larger shape, which could be a horse, or a very massive man. He tries counting the wights in the clearing, and realizes upon looking behind him that there's another group approaching from behind, emerging silently from among the trees.  
Maybe it's because there's someone beside him, or maybe it's because of his recent dream of home. But suddenly the thought of dying doesn't seem so appealing. It's a split-second of understanding that upends the world around him. He's no longer fueled by his despair, a lack of fear born of a lack of hope. Now he _wants_ , and _wants_. To grow old in Winterfell, and to join his errant wolf pack, and to relish every misguided desire of his newly woken flesh.

This change of heart feels like a weakness, as if someone had stolen his sword and replaced it with a wooden stick. It was much easier to fight when he didn't care about saving his own skin. Now he finds himself questioning his every strike, even more so as there are too many enemies to count. He slashes the first wight that reaches them, kicks the dark shape in the middle of the chest and catches another across the jaw, the sword cracking bone. The girl is behind him, hacking at the crawling soldiers that try to snatch at her feet.

 _Ghost_ , Jon thinks, calls, with a stubborn streak of hope.

Yet he's caught off-guard when the direwolf does appear, barreling into a group of wights - and in Ghost's wake, it's a sudden avalanche of wildlings, a blur of screaming silhouettes wielding swords and axes and spears. They run as if they think they'll win this battle by trampling the wights. When Jon turns back towards the clearing, meaning to rush to the girl's rescue, he finds unexpected help on that front, too. The dragon doesn't linger -- its shadow sweeps over the clearing like a cloud blown forth by a strong wind. But that brief passage is enough for it to breathe a flame that sets the whole forest alight. The fire catches every single wight in the clearing, as well as the soldiers who were still sitting beneath the trees, and the trees themselves. Jon's relief only lasts until he looks across the clearing and sees the weirwood tree, its white bark engulfed in flames.

He looks around him for the girl, finds that he can see her now that the air around them is lit orange and blue by the quick-spreading flames. She has dark hair, soft features and a smattering of freckles across her nose. She's looking at him as if her life depends on the continuity of that stare - much like he'd stared at the dragon.

"It's nearly morning," she shouts, above the wind and the fire and the clash of weapons.

It doesn't seem like morning, but then again the sky and the light have become unreliable markers of time. The fire gives the illusion of daylight, the snowstorm the illusion of an endless night. She might be right. The wights have stopped coming. On the other side of the clearing, there's only snow, and the wind rustling through the trees.

"What's your name?" Jon asks the girl.

She seems taken aback, as if that was the last thing that she expected to hear. "Crane," she says, at length, while behind her the wildlings and soldiers  
begin to torch the corpses of the wights.

"Like the bird?"

She nods, her eyes bright. There's something frail about her, about her small stature and her bony wrists. How could a girl like her have felled a White Walker with a single stroke?

Jon's eyes fall upon her sword. The blade shines with a myriad colours, dancing along the cutting edge. The cross-guard is an assault on the eye, with its enormous ruby and the intricate tracing of its golden inlays.

"Where did you find that sword?"

"I stole it," she says, slightly petulant. "It was Cersei Lannister's. She made it with your father's sword. I took it, so I could give it back to you."

Jon looks at the sword again, goes so far as to reach for the blade. He stops short of touching it, though. He doesn't need to get any closer to know that she's telling the truth. The blade no longer looks like so many indistinct colours. Ned Stark's sword was true to its namesake, and in a good northern light, the blade would have all the hues of a snowy mountain draped with mist. Under the gold and the garish stones, the Lannister sword retains some of that coldness, like a glimpse of bones beneath the flesh.

"You can have it," she says, and holds out the sword, a little awkwardly, with the point facing down and her hands high on the pommel.

Jon takes another look at her. He tries to interpret her strangeness, that spark of startled fear that seems to ignite whenever their eyes meet. "You should keep it," he says. "You can obviously use it." 

"It's a Stark heirloom!" she exclaims, properly shocked. 

"And you saved the life of a Stark, didn't you?"

She seems to search for an answer. Finding none, she sheathes the sword, in a weathered scabbard that doesn't really fit the blade.

"Did you come with Daenerys Stormborn?" Jon asks.

"Yes," Crane says. "Your Grace," she adds, repentant. "My family died during the siege of King's Landing, and I decided to join the Queen's army."

As they speak, Jon makes sure to keep an eye on his troops. They've fallen into a semblance of order, with some men shuffling back towards the camp, while the others scour the woods for fallen comrades and errant wights. They've set up a pyre in the clearing, though it requires a dozen men just to keep it going against the wind and the snow.

"You can tell me your story when we're out of the storm," he says. "Right now, we should get back to the camp." He looks around, finds Ghost and waits until the wolf has joined them before he follows his men.

"Won't they find you a horse?" Crane asks. "Your Grace," she adds precipitously, as she hurries to catch up with him.

"I hope your army has brought a few. We're running low."

"It's a long walk and you're their king!" she protests.

"I had a horse," Jon says. "It died, like the one before that. And about half a dozen others before that one. I had to kill some of them, and burn them. There was one I didn't burn. Its eyes turned blue, and it tried to bite off my arm. This isn't a war that can be won with horses."

"You could still have ridden back to camp," Crane says, stubborn. "You'd have spared yourself a long walk in the storm."

"I'll keep that in mind," Jon says, mostly to put an end to her protests.

He comes to regret this dismissal a few minutes later. As they walk past a column of wearied soldiers, he stops to help raise a man to his feet. While he drags the man's arm across his shoulders, a soldier from House Cerwyn grabs a hold of his waist. It doesn't take long, and soon the two men are back on the road, the one half-carrying the other. But Jon loses Crane in the process. One moment she was here, standing beside him with her troubled gaze and her bird-like limbs, and the next there's only a snowy outcrop of rock, as if she'd turned into stone. Or taken flight, maybe.

It's only the latest strange occurrence in a very strange night, and in the state he's in, it's not much of a stretch to think that all these events were linked - the skinchanging dream, and the dragon, and the girl with a piece of Ice in a worn scabbard.

He does wonder if he'll see her again. But in the meantime, he is cold, and weary, and it's another night that has ended. All he can think to do is drag himself back to the camp, and rest.

 

 

Naturally, when he reaches the camp, his near-delirious dream of sleep is promptly dashed to pieces.

The snowstorm quieted down while he was still trudging through the forest, and when he steps out from the woods, the skies have cleared. If it weren't for the thick layer of snow, one could almost mistake the warm air and the cloudless sky for an early spring. But this auspicious weather is nowhere near as startling as the sight of the dragons. There are two of them, the one Jon saw in the forest, with streaks of red and golden scales, and another that seems twice as big, black- scaled and frighteningly alert. A thin plume of grey smoke rises above its open jaws. Both dragons are sprawled in the snow at some distance from the camp. The ground around them is green and brown, as if the heat from their bodies had been enough to melt several months' worth of ice. And they're not alone. Jon counts three people off to the side, including a fair-haired woman who could be the Targaryen queen. He won't make any assumptions on that front until he's met her - he hasn't forgotten the first time he saw Tormund, and how he'd mistaken him for a king. Though it's not a mistake he regrets, really. There are still times when Tormund seems more kingly than he will ever be.

He's still quite far away when the dragons notice him. Both heads turn at the same time, and then remain motionless, poised in mid-air. At first, Jon doesn't make much of it. They could have been distracted by something else. After all, there's a steady stream of soldiers walking beside him, headed out of the forest and towards the camps. But then one of the figures points in his direction, and he remembers that Ghost is walking beside him, a perpetual give-away. So he breaks away from the others and crosses the plain. When he gets within a hundred feet and the dragons still haven't moved, he holds a hand in front of Ghost's snout.

"Go wait for me in the camp."

Ghost growls. It's a frightening rumble. He's staring at the dragons with so much distrust that Jon could nearly believe that Petyr Baelish is hiding behind their wings.

"Ghost," he warns.

Ghost growls again, defiantly. But he sits down in the snow, and when Jon takes a tentative step, the wolf stays still.

Back in the forest, Jon had thought that the red dragon was enormous, but the black one dwarfs it just like it dwarfs the three humans. Jon is reminded of the giants, of his first glimpse of their looming shadows, back in Mance Rayder's camp. And then he thinks of the Wall. Like the dragons, the Wall was old magic, and a breath-taking sight. Something that obeyed the laws of men, but that men would never truly govern.

"They're intrigued." The voice is proud, youthful. "I told them to burn the last king we met."

Jon's eyes are on the dragon as she speaks, and he couldn't say if it's her words, or the dragon's stare, or just a trick of his tired mind, but an image flickers in front of his eyes. A vision of children poised above a raging sea, and then turning away, to look down at a burning city.

When he turns to Daenerys Targaryen, she falters, her lips parted. The sea's still there in her stormy eyes. Jon can't help but wonder if she's seen something, too, a glimpse of other fires and other wars.

"Your Grace," Davos says, quickly walking over. "May I introduce Jon Snow, the King in the North."

"Your Grace," Jon says, wishing he'd had a chance to wipe some of the mud and ashes from his face. It doesn't cost him much to style her the way she wants - their competing claims to the North is the farthest thing from his mind in that moment. But she seems to appreciate it nonetheless. She smiles. It's a pretty smile, and too knowing by half.

"Is this your wolf?" she asks, tilting her head to look past his shoulder at Ghost, whom Jon hopes is still waiting obediently at some distance from the dragons. "I'd never seen a direwolf before."

"I'd never seen a dragon before."

They exchange a smile. His own feels rusty, and is probably more frightful than charming, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"Thank you for answering our call," Jon says. "We wouldn't have lasted much longer."

Though these words are mostly addressed to Daenerys, he also ventures a look towards the man standing behind Davos, whom he assumes must be Howland Reed. He's never met his father's friend, but the man is wearing the armour of the crannogmen, and there's something about him that's reminiscent of Ned Stark, a kindness in the eyes, a stern reproach lingering about the mouth. The man gives a discreet nod of acknowledgment.

"Part of my army should be here by nightfall," Daenerys says. "I decided to fly ahead of the troops, since I was told you needed fire. I tried not to burn down the forest."

Jon looks over his shoulder at the smoking woods. Most of the trees are still standing, and the woods he crossed on his way back from the battle seemed  
unscathed. But he doubts the north of the forest has fared so well. The burning weirwood tree is engraved in his memory, with the dancing shadows making it seem as if the face upon the tree were screaming.

"Your fires saved my men." It seems like the right thing to say, and it's not exactly a lie. "The North is indebted to you."

Davos sends him a warning look, which Jon takes to mean that he shouldn't be too accommodating. She might be graceful at present, but she remains a potential foe.

"You came alone," he says, suddenly struck by another thought.

"I wouldn't say so," Daenerys says, pointedly raising her eyebrows. "I bring forty thousand men by land, and twenty thousand by sea. The ships have reached the western shore, and the men are crossing the Wolfswood towards us. My Dothraki must have reached your family seat. They are bringing cartloads of dragonglass. There were pressing matters to attend to in King's Landing... The capital is in ruins. But my Hand assured me that this war would decide the fate of my kingdom, and others were quick to support this claim. I spoke to a banished priestess, and to the Lord Protector of the Vale. While I flew, I saw more ruined castles than I could count. I haven't come alone, Lord Snow. Even in the south, we heard the echo of your falling wall."

"And I'm grateful," Jon says. "For the army, and for the dragonglass. I apologize if I gave offence, your Grace. It's been a long night."

He hadn't meant to insult her, really. But when he'd realized the army had yet to arrive, he'd remembered Crane. She'd said she was part of the Targaryen forces, and if that was a lie, where had she come from, and where had she found that sword?

"Your Grace," Davos interjects. He does so humbly enough that it doesn't feel like an interruption. "May I suggest that we reconvene this meeting? The King has spent the night on the battlefield. Wouldn't it be preferable to wait until midday, and gather the lords and... leaders of the army?" That last hesitation probably refers to Tormund, who can hardly be called a lord, but who won't be left out of any war council.

"Of course," Daenerys says, tempering the steel in her voice. "I'm grateful that you took the time to talk to me." She hesitates. "Your Grace," she adds, appearing to force the words through her lips. But she tempers that as well, with another graceful smile.

Still Jon must stay a moment longer, to discuss the layout of the camp and whether the plain will accommodate the Targaryen army. By the time he finally walks away, he feels light-headed with exhaustion. It's a relief to be reunited with Ghost, and to walk as far away from the dragons as they possibly can.  
Davos joins him as he reaches the wildling camp. The older man is slightly out of breath, and Jon slows down, allowing him to catch up.

"I apologize, your Grace. I know another talk is probably the last thing you want right now, but..."

"What is it?" Jon sighs. "I don't mind the talking. Don't expect a clever answer, that's all."

"You might want to consider why she came here herself," Davos says. "It's just my opinion, but it seems risky to leave the Lannisters to watch over King's Landing... The Lannisters she hasn't killed, that is. I also wonder where that last dragon is. It might not even exist. I'd take all she says with a grain of salt."

"I will," Jon assures him. "What about Howland Reed?"

"What about him?"

"Can we trust him?"

For all that he values Davos' opinion, he finds himself longing for Sansa's. In the past few months, she's proven a better hand than most of them at these political games.

"He hasn't asked anything of you, yet," Davos says. "And he's less likely to than a lot of them, if you ask me."

Somewhere along the way, Davos has stopped using his title, but Jon is not about to point that out. On the contrary, he finds the informality rather soothing.

"You said you'd call a meeting," he says. "Is everyone accounted for?"

"Not all of them have returned to the camp yet. There's a rumour that Lord Glover was fatally wounded. But it wouldn't be the first time this rumour goes around... The Manderlys have been thinking of new ways to kill him ever since the Glovers got a better plot of land for their camp."

There's one last question that Jon wants to ask before they reach his tent, but he's not quite sure how to phrase it.

"Could the dragons be a liability?" he ventures. "How can we be sure that they'll obey her?"

Davos takes him time to answer. "From what I understand," he says slowly, "she raised them. I don't know much about dragons, but you raised that wolf, didn't you? I'd imagine it's a similar bond."

They slow down as they reach the tent. A man is waiting outside, holding the reins of an exhausted horse. One of Sansa's knights, Jon realizes with a start. The falcon and crescent is faintly visible on the horse's saddle, beneath a smattering of snow. Jon snatches the letter from the man's hand, and before either the knight or Davos has time to say a word, he's rushed inside the tent, tearing off his gloves to break the seal. He paces around the tent as he reads, drinking in the words, the writing, and the swirl of Sansa's signature at the bottom of the parchment.

"Davos!" he calls.

As he thought, Davos had been waiting just outside. He comes in the moment he's called.

"My brother has returned to Winterfell," Jon says. The dream he had the day before still sits oddly in his mind. Even now that he knows it was real, he's unwilling to reshape it into a memory.

"Good news, then," Davos says encouragingly.

"Yes," Jon says, with a tired smile. "But it means I should... Bran is my father's heir. If he's back..."

"No, your Grace. I beg you pardon, but this isn't the time for a change of power. After the war, maybe, but now... However, if I could offer some advice..."

"Please do. You know I'll welcome it."

"Well. While I wouldn't advise you step down, I'd also recommend securing your position. There are some among your bannermen who don't take too kindly to a king whose closest advisors are a smuggler and a wildling."

"You're no longer a smuggler," Jon reminds him.

"It's just something to keep in mind," Davos says. "If your brother decides to stake a claim... Him or someone else."

"Fine," Jon sighs. "I'll think about it. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Of course."

Davos steps out, and Jon is left standing alone in the moderate warmth of the tent, the letter still clutched in his bare hands. He knows the knight is probably still outside, waiting for an answer to take back to Winterfell.

Jon isn't sure what that answer should be, however. He can hardly tell Sansa that he already knew that Bran was back. He can't tell her that he'll gladly give Bran the throne, if that's what Bran wants. It's not something he can safely commit to a letter.

He sits on the cot, flattens the letter against his knee, and reads it again, as avidly as he had the first time.

_Dear Jon,_

_Bran arrived in Winterfell last night. He is unharmed, though I think it will take him a while to recover from his journey. You might not recognize him; he's quite grown. He reminds me of father._

_I have received a message from Tyrion. He says the Targaryen army left weeks ago, and that they were supposed to send word of their progress. I haven't  
seen anything resembling an army. Only scores of our people, chased away from their homes by the war. We've relocated hundreds around the winter town, but it's a temporary solution. Maybe you could have a word with Lord Cerwyn on the subject. If we could give part of these people the resources they need, and send them to Castle Cerwyn, there would be less of a strain on Winterfell._

_Do you miss the daylight too? I think I could bear it all, if I was given just a single summer day, and I could spend it with you. All this pleading and the arguing and the dead and the living. I think I'll go mad. Write back, so that I have something to hold onto. I don't even know what your handwriting looks like._

_You'll think me foolish for sending a soldier on such a selfish errand. Keep him if you wish. Say the word and I'll send the others, too. I just needed to know I could write freely, without a maester weighing my every word._

_Your devoted,_

_Sansa_

He could leave it until he's slept, or wait a few days, maybe, to give himself time to intercede with Lord Cerwyn. But that particular request can be answered with a raven. In the meantime, he knows he won't be able to sleep unless he knows that he's sent an answer her way, no matter how short it may be. So he dashes a few lines on a piece of parchment. His hand trembles, no matter how hard he tries to keep it steady, and the lines blur in front of his eyes. It's a feverish message, and he doesn't give himself time to reconsider. He folds it and stamps it with the direwolf seal.

Once the knight of the Vale has left, he's finally able to discard his armour, and to wash off the ashes of the battle in the freezing water of a tarnished basin. And then, finally, he lies down, pulls the furs over his aching limbs, and falls asleep, with Sansa's letter folded under his cheek.


	4. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dearest Sansa_ , she reads, and breathes out, leaning her forehead against the window.

_Sansa,_

_Did the dragons fly over Winterfell? I know this was your doing. Every soldier here is indebted to your clever letters. I hear they brought us an army._

_I should tell you not to write again, in fact I should make it an order (do not risk your men, or your resources, just to send me a few private words). But I can't find it in myself to give such an order. It's been a terrible night, and you wanted something by my hand, so here it is. You know I can't use words the way you do. But I miss you. I wish I could see you, and hold you. I can't promise that I'll come back, but if I do, I want to turn round in that courtyard and find you there, trying to hold me up. I'm surrounded by soldiers and dragons and White Walkers, and you're still the strongest person I know. Look after our brother for me._

_Yours always,_

_Jon_

 

Sansa folds the letter, tucks it away safely inside her sleeve. She knows it by heart at this point, and when she takes it out, it's mostly to get another look at Jon's writing. It's barely legible, with round-bellied letters that overlap each other, and the occasional smudge where the ink wasn't given time to dry. She wouldn't want it any other way. This hasty scrawl tells her all she needs to know about Jon's state of mind when he wrote the letter. He must have been too tired to write properly - too tired to measure his words. _Yours always_ , and _I wish I could_. Promises and dreams and a hint of hope.

Even by night, there's enough light to read a letter by. The lands around Winterfell have become one gigantic blaze. At all times, there are over a hundred people working in the forges, struggling to keep the fires alive.

It began a day or two after the army had left, when the maester received a message from the Citadel. Written by one Samwell Tarly, an apprentice who claimed to be Jon's friend, the message contained formulas and spells. It took the maester three days to decipher the letter, and even after had, there remained certain obscure fragments.

But Tarly stated the purpose of his message in its opening lines. He believed that he had found the formula to produce Valyrian steel, or at the very least, "enchanted swords", and he was passing it on, in the hope that Jon would be able to create weapons to fight the White Walkers.

In the wake of the letter, the armoury was relocated in part outside the walls of the castle, and now hundreds of swords come out of the forges each day. So far, none of them has come even remotely close to displaying the properties of Valyrian steel, and the output varies depending on the comings and goings of the northerners. Some days, there are enough people to work the forges to capacity. On others, Winterfell barely has enough blacksmiths to go by. Yet sometimes, the most inauspicious day might yield the best results, particularly when Daenerys Targaryen flies in from the battlefield to provide the forges with dragon fire. The Queen's red priestesses are a common sight around the weaponry, too, young women draped in crimson who will chant or hold hands, or simply walk in and out of the forges with little care of the heat, or of the snow.

Sansa had a strange encounter with one of them on the day the Queen's army rode past the castle. The priestess had caught her wrist as she made her way through the busy courtyard, stilling her in her tracks, and before she could disengage herself, the woman whispered, quick and low, "I saw you."

Too startled to answer, Sansa had only tried to free her arm from a too-strong grip.

"Words of wisdom for you," the woman went on to say, her dark eyes intent upon Sansa's face. "A broken sword and a burning king. A burning sword and a broken man."

These "words of wisdom" have fueled enough nightmares since then that Sansa tries to avoid the red women at all costs. She steers clear of their chants and their fires. When she goes past the forges, she never lingers. And if she finds her eyes drifting towards the flames, she tears her gaze away, and looks at the snow instead. It has become an unlikely ally, for although she might long for the return of summer, she knows that Jon has never quite belonged to the light, and to the lazy summer haze. He will not burn, this son of snow, and as for being broken, she doubts the war could break him more than the Watch already has.

She'll see him again, and no whispered threat can alter that stubborn faith.

As she walks towards the King's Gate, a shadow passes overhead. More than the timid light of dawn, it warns her that the battle has ended. The dragons never return until the last of the White Walkers has vanished from the battlefield. Lyanna Mormont joins her below the gate, and they wait together for the dragons to land. The red one - _Viserion_ \- swerves towards the forges. The other, Drogon, circles the castle once before it alights before them, its enormous body coiling around itself. The pointed tail sweeps past Sansa's face. She flinches, but doesn't step back.

Daenerys Targaryen jumps down from the dragon's back. The movement is instinctive, and meant perhaps to impress them. But the young queen stumbles, betrayed by her tired limbs. She has to hold onto the dragon's flank to stay upright. Sansa and Lyanna know better than to offer their assistance.

"Your Grace," Sansa says, fighting not to flinch before the dragon's burning eyes. She speaks because she knows Lyanna will not. The lady Mormont has sworn allegiance to one sovereign, and one only. Her only acknowledgement of Daenerys so far has been a stilted nod.

Daenerys nods in return. Even after a battle, with her fair braid streaked with mud and her armour covered in grime and soot, she's resolutely and rather staggeringly lovely. "A sight for sore eyes", Petyr had said, with a mischievous grin, on the day he returned to Winterfell with the promised army. Daenerys was absent, having left with her dragons to join the battle - to find Jon. "See," Petyr went on, watching Sansa carefully, "if the dragons fail to boost the troops' morale, the girl's beauty will do just fine."

And when Sansa had seen Daenerys for the first time, she'd understood what he meant. Even now, as she tries to walk on unsteady legs, there's something about her that no other woman could ever hope to emulate. Not Cersei, with her confidence in the things owed her. Not Lyanna, with her unflagging poise. Not Sansa herself, with her northern grit, and her southern manners.

Daenerys knows she was born to be queen. It's not just a dream, or a clever scheme, built upon a set of circumstances liable to change at any moment.

Sansa had kept her face carefully blank when Petyr first spoke of the Dragon Queen, and since then, she's been twice as cautious. It wouldn't do for him to measure how insecure she feels, how pitifully resentful. After all, this is a queen who doesn't stand back, who doesn't hide behind her troops. And though Sansa used to think that her own removal from battle was a sign of wisdom, she's not so sure anymore. What's a schemer to a queen who'll ride her dragons into the heart of a battle?

_She's the same kind of ruler as Jon. Petyr and I, we scheme in the shadows, we lie in the light. And in the meantime, if they don't win their battles, Jon and Daenerys earn the love and loyalty of their people._

__"You may tell your brother that we've followed his advice," Daenerys says, finally stepping away from the dragon._ _

__"My brother," Sansa repeats, startled out of her thoughts._ _

__"Your brother Bran?" Daenerys says. "We owe him a debt. He was right about the dragonglass. It does prevent death at the hands of the wights, or at least, it turns the men into wights who will fight on our side."_ _

__Sansa remembers Bran's tale of their uncle Benjen. Daenerys might view Benjen's fate as a shift in the tide of the battle. But for Sansa, Bran's story marks the felling of another branch of the Stark family tree. It might have been better not to know what had become of their uncle. It might even have been better if Benjen had died, rather than to be condemned to this strange half-life, somewhere beyond the ruins of the Wall._ _

__"There will be less fires, then," Lyanna says. "Maybe we can save some of the lands, after all."_ _

"Bran said the dragonglass wasn't a cure," Sansa says. "It brings back the dead, but they're still dead. What will happen to these men, when the battle is over?"

"A wise thought," Daenerys replies. "But one to be had when the war is over. Their fate won't matter if we lose."

__Her voice is steady, considerate. Sansa can't help but find it condescending, although Daenerys has never been anything but polite towards her. Sensing Lyanna's pointed stare, Sansa reins in her annoyance._ _

__"Might I ask after my brother, your Grace?" she says, a little too polite to be honest. Lyanna glances at her again. If she could, the young lady would probably kick her in the shins as an additional warning._ _

__"Your brother is reckless," Daenerys says, not without admiration. "But he has the stealth and resilience of your family sigil. Do you wish me to pass on a message?"_ _

__Sansa lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Jon is alive, at least for another day. This relief will be short-lived, no doubt, but she'll enjoy it while she can._ _

__It would be so easy to take the Queen up on her offer. She could even entrust her with a written message. Jon would get it within the day, the words still shining with fresh ink._ _

__Or the message could be altered along the way, or stolen, or discarded. A seal is so easily broken._ _

__"If your Grace would relay my thanks to Lord Cerwyn," she says. "I'm very grateful that he's accepted to open the gates of his castle to our people in this time of need."_ _

__"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Daenerys says. "But Lord Cerwyn was killed last night. It happened in the heart of the melee. Nothing could be done."_ _

__"I'm sorry to hear it," Sansa says, already thinking of Lady Cerwyn, who spent the first weeks of the war managing the stores in the new glass gardens, and who recently travelled back to her castle, the better to receive the displaced northerners that her husband had agreed to host._ _

__"We need more blacksmiths," Lyanna says, with that brisk voice of hers that could easily come across as insolent. Thankfully, Daenerys had chosen early on to treat the Lady Mormont's retorts like well-meaning advice._ _

__"We've dispatched messages to the neighbouring castles and villages," Sansa explains. "But if there are competent blacksmiths among the troops, they might be of better use at Winterfell."_ _

__"I'll see what I can do," Daenerys replies._ _

__"I've had a room prepared in the Guest House, should your Grace wish to rest," Sansa says, though she knows that Daenerys will spend the day at the forges. No one but her can command to the dragons - no one would even dare try._ _

__"Thank you," Daenerys says._ _

__For a brief moment, they catch a glimpse of the woman under the armour, tired and doubtful and so very young. But it's gone in the blink of an eye, and Daenerys throws back her white braid and stalks over to the dragon, barely taking the time to brace herself before she springs upon its back._ _

__"Farewell," she says, her voice ringing in the cold morning air. "Lady Stark, Lady Mormont."_ _

__"The Gods keep you safe," Sansa says, though this benevolent send-off doesn't exactly spring from the heart._ _

__

__

_Dear Jon,_

_What a strange world we live in, that one day we could be children listening to Old Nan's tales, and the next, these self-same tales could be walking among us. I see the dragons almost every day now. Viserion is always absorbed by something or other, but its eyes will follow you as soon as your back is turned, as if it were trying to catch you unawares. Drogon has taken a liking to the Broken Tower. He perches up there like a great bird, wrapping its tail around the broken battlements. You can look up and think that Bran the Builder has come back, to build us a roof of the thickest dragon-hide._

_They terrify me. From a lifetime spent in the North, however, I've learned that it's better not to let a beast feel your fear. Father used to say that one must strike a balance, and be at once unassuming, and strong. So I stand my ground, like a direwolf would. I often think of Ghost in such moments, and how I'm sure he would step between the dragon and you. I probably would, too, for all the good that it would do._

_You will be happy to hear that Bran is doing well. He looks forward to seeing you. He spends much of his time with Meera Reed, who was his companion in the time he spent beyond the Wall. In the evenings, he sits by my side in the Godswood. I think of the wains we send to Castle Cerwyn, and of the wains we should have received by now, grain and iron and troops from the Riverlands. Bran dreams. He says he sees father in his dreams, and that sometimes he sees you._

_I hear you have been reckless. Please don't be. I know that this plea will fall on deaf ears, just as I know you to be a contradictory man. You want to fall upon a sword. You want to fall into my arms. It can't be both, Jon, and for both our sakes, I wish you'd choose the latter. I'll repeat it again and again because I keep hoping that eventually, at long last, the words will become another suit of armour._

_Come back to me, come back to me, come back to me._

_With all my love,_

_Sansa_

"You look exhausted, my dear. Have you had trouble sleeping?"

__Petyr doesn't ask questions he doesn't know the answer to. And it's easy enough to see how he could have found the answer to that particular question. The room smells musty, the covers are in disarray, and there are half a dozen dresses lying about. It's been an absolute waste of a day. She should have spent it wandering the castle, rather than to try to force herself to lie down._ _

__"I was worried about the fire," she admits._ _

__She's pushed an armchair under the open window and burrowed inside it, with her knees close to her chest. She finds the cold air makes a pleasant change from the nauseating warmth of the room._ _

__"It was dreadful, no doubt," Petyr says. "But you shouldn't let it get to you. There'll be other problems of the sort, and you won't solve them if every single issue robs you of your sleep."_ _

__"We lost a months' worth of supplies," she protests. "And it's not just our supplies. The people of the winter town entrust us with their stores. What if the fire had spread, and we'd lost everything? We spent a whole summer making provisions, and they could be gone in a puff of smoke."_ _

_"Everything_ could be gone in a puff of smoke, Sansa," Petyr says. He sounds flippant, as always, but she can tell he's being serious in spite of his vacant smile. "From one moment to the next, you could lose this castle, your brother, your other brother, the clothes on your back, the food in your pantry and the gold in your coffers. Isn't that a lesson you've already learned? I've seen you rise stronger with every loss. But for that, you have to sleep."

__"I know," she sighs, rubbing her eyes. "Maybe now I can -- now that the light's gone."_ _

__She's tired of wasting the daylight and of staying up at night, following the rhythm of the army. It might be selfish of her, but there's so little light as it is. She resents having to sacrifice it to a few hours of uneasy sleep._ _

__"Sleep somewhere else," Petyr advises. "A change of scenery. Let me know where, and I'll come and wake you up."_ _

__

__

__Petyr doesn't wake her up. When her eyes blink open, still sleepy and unfocused, she finds him sitting beside the bed, watching her with a calculating gaze._ _

__"Did I oversleep?" she asks. She knows she must look a fright, and it bothers her that he should see her like this. It makes her feel defenceless._ _

"No," Petyr smiles. "I was about to wake you. There's nothing much to report, either. Your iron came in. Some idiot tried to walk across the moat and drowned. Oh, and I hear you haven't been around the Sept lately. While I understand, I'd advise you to make an appearance there tonight. The people who see you in the Godswood are not the same as those who attend the services in the Sept, and as those tend to have, let us say, _southern_ inclinations, I'd try to get in their good graces as well."

__"Fine," Sansa mutters sleepily._ _

__Littlefinger has brought a maid along, and Sansa settles on a stool as the girl produces a comb and tries to arrange her tangled hair. The maid has also brought a clean dress, but Sansa isn't about to change in front of Petyr, so for now the dress waits on the bed, carefully laid out._ _

__"I know for a fact that there are many unoccupied rooms in this castle," Petyr says. "Yet, you had to choose this one."_ _

__"Any room would have done just fine," Sansa replies, refusing to rise to the bait._ _

__Of course, Petyr being Petyr, he doesn't let go, witnesses be damned._ _

__"I wonder what it was that lulled you to sleep," he muses. "The smell of the pillow, the weight of the rugs over your back? Sometimes it's the way the sheets cling to our legs, isn't it. It makes us feel protected, like a warm embrace... Did you let anyone clean this room since he left, or is there still wolf hair all over the bed?"_ _

__She's learned to expect these outbursts. They're short, controlled. Silence seems like the best defence, when she knows he'll take note of her every word, the better to use them against her at a later date._ _

__Besides, she wouldn't know how to explain it, either. She'd been in dire need of some rest, and there shouldn't have been any to be had in Jon's room. The air is still thick with his presence, and indeed, with Ghost's. It should drive her mad with worry and longing. But instead, she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, forgetting to pull the curtains, or to clear the bed of an assortment of clothes that no one had bothered to clean._ _

__"There you are, Lady Stark," the girl says, and steps back._ _

__"Thank you. I'll take it from here." Sansa throws a meaningful look at Petyr, so that he knows to leave as well._ _

__As he walks past her, he hovers a moment by the bed. After a thoughtful pause, he lays down a letter on the pile of furs._ _

__"This came for you," he says. "Remember what I told you - about the Sept."_ _

__Sansa remains seated on the stool, utterly still, until both Petyr and the girl have gone. She lights a candle and sets it down on the windowsill. Her fingers shake as she breaks the direwolf seal. It could be the cold, which she can faintly feel through the foggy pane. It could be the exhaustion that never quite leaves her, even after a few stolen moments of sleep. It could be that she worries, irrationally, that this new letter won't be as kind or as heartfelt as the previous one._ _

_Dearest Sansa_ , she reads, and breathes out, leaning her forehead against the window. The turmoil inside her subsides. As she reads, she takes in not only the meaning of the words but the writing, too, that hurried chaos of letters that reveals something of Jon that his cool composure usually hides.

_I don't know what will reach you first: this letter, or the Queen and her dragons, or the message we intend to send by raven. As we lost the last of our ravens last night during an attack on the camp, and we intend to send the dragons after the wights later today, it's possible that this letter is the first you'll hear of what they've already begun to call the Frozen March._

_Slowly, steadily, we're retaking the Long Lake._

_I've been leading part of the troops upwards along the western shore, while Yara Greyjoy takes the bulk of the Queen's army around the eastern shore. I can't bring myself to be confident just yet, but for now the White Walkers have fallen back. They could be regrouping, and then we'll lose the lake again in a night or two. But even if it's only temporary, this reprieve has done wonders to galvanise the troops._

_I promised myself that this letter would be hopeful. I really want to make you smile. Let me know if I achieve this much; somehow, it seems just as much of an uphill battle as our Frozen March._

_You'll be glad to know there's still life in the forest. I thought we'd be walking through a ghost wood, but Ghost unearthed a rabbit hole last night. For a moment everyone had to stand still as the rabbits fled in every direction (even Ghost, who was too taken aback to think of trapping one of them)._

_I've made strange encounters. Lord Reed, father's old friend, whose daughter you tell me has travelled with Bran. The Crannogmen are fierce in battle, every bit as strong and tenacious as the most bull-headed of us Northerners (though I suppose if you asked them, the Crannogmen would tell you the Neck is part of the North). Lord Reed doesn't speak much, which suits me fine, especially now that the camp has nearly doubled in size. There's Daenerys Targaryen's horselords, who'd never seen any snow before, and the Ironborn, who tend to forget how they came to fight this war, but who love fighting too much to care. The Free Folk are tame by comparison. In the hours before a battle, I'll generally wind up around a fire with Davos, Brienne, Tormund, Reed and a few others, and it's as peaceful as it gets. They form the beginning of a court, I suppose. I'd have you sitting by my side; you'd know how to make sure they all feel included, and how to break up rows that haven't yet started. Although I take comfort in the rows, too. A few weeks back, most of the men were too tired to argue._

_I don't have much time left to write. I wanted to tell you about the relief I feel whenever I see the first light of dawn. I also wanted to tell you about a girl who saved my life. She appeared in the middle of a battle and though I think I've caught a glimpse of her here and there since then, I've no idea where she is, and if she's even a real girl, rather than some helpful ghost._

_It's hard to describe the atmosphere of the camp right now, somewhere between hope and rage. Everyone wants this war to end. Finally, it seems like it might, someday._

_I'm not saying it'll end soon. But when it does, I'll be rushing back to you. In my dreams you meet me halfway, and it's the sweetest relief: that glimpse of you through the trees, walking steady through the snow._

_Until then, I'll make do with a letter._

_Yours,_

_Jon_

She's running out of time, having slept when she should have been making her rounds. But she spares a moment to reread the last few lines. A second time, and then a third.

__When she leaves the room, she's smiling, and though she doesn't really notice it, there's a new spring to her step. As if the letter had given her what sleep could not - reassurance, hope, and something that tastes a little too much like bliss to be trusted. It'll vanish, she knows it. She'll read the letter again, and after a while, it won't work anymore. The written words can only replace the man for so long._ _

__But for now, she'll make use of that wild burst of joy. She knows that it can power the forges and replenish the stores, that it can lift the spirits of the faithful in the Sept, and soothe the weary who loiter in the Godswood._ _

__And when all that is said and done, she'll save a little to take up to Bran's room, where she'll win a smile from his tired face._ _

__

__

Sansa hasn't shared her letter with anyone, save a few passages that she read aloud to Bran and Meera. And yet, somehow, on the night that follows the letter's arrival - and despite the lack of any official news - the entire castle knows that the army is retaking the North.

__Suddenly everyone is about. People who'd been hiding until then, huddled in the Great Hall with a seemingly bottomless tankard of ale, or dozing off during the vigils in the Sept, or gambling whatever they had left close to the heat of the braziers in the Keep. They all step into the yards, and gather around bright fires that would nearly trick Sansa into thinking that the army has returned. But these are bonfires, not campfires. The atmosphere is one of strange merriment, tenuous but fierce. Children run from one group to the next, repeating what they've heard, altering it as they go along._ _

__The rumours that reach Sansa's ears are so grotesque that she has to wonder how anyone could believe them. She hears that the White Wolf has found the Night King's lair, deep under the lake. She hears that Daenerys has turned into a dragon, for the Targaryen dragon has three heads, and where else would her third dragon be? She hears that Jon cannot be killed, and she hears that he's become a wight. She hears that the final battle is to take place in the Wolfswood, and that the last White Walker will fall when the last tree has been burnt to the ground. She hears that the war has already ended, and that soon, the Queen will return, and claim the North for herself. The murderous winter will flee before her dragons' fire. Summer will return, never to end.__

 

Sometimes, Sansa hears her name, too, though the whispers always cease when she draws near. It doesn't matter. If she wants to know what is being said, she needs only ask Petyr.

__She finds him with one of his girls. They are counting coins and inventorying valuable objects, which seems to suggest that Petyr isn't only in charge of the clandestine brothel, but also of the gambling dens in the Great Keep._ _

__"They think the war is already over," Petyr says._ _

__"But it's not over yet, is it?" Sansa asks._ _

__Petyr sends the girl away. He pushes aside a pile of ornate candelabras and lies down on the bed, hands linked over his stomach. He's wearing new clothes: a tunic, with such fine embroidery that it looks like spider silk, and sturdy leather boots, made to withstand the weather but with a southern cut, that hugs the calf and flatters the leg. He's thrown his new cape over the back of a chair. From where she stands, it's difficult to tell if the white fur around the collar is ermine or wolf._ _

__"What does your brother say?" Petyr asks. "Unless that letter wasn't about the war at all."_ _

"Jon won't be optimistic until we've won," Sansa says. _And even then, it might take him a few years to reconcile himself with the fact that we haven't all died._

__"Ah, well. It doesn't really matter," Petyr says. "You and I both know that wars never really end. They might defeat their foes on the battlefield, but after that it will turn into a war of succession. You must ready yourself for that."_ _

__"That's why I came to see you. I want to know what the rumours say. I need to know if they like me... If they'll side with me."_ _

__"Oh, they like you," Petyr says. "I doubt there's a soul in this castle that doesn't venerate you. But those who fought in the war will take your brother's side, and your brother might side with the Targaryen queen. And then there's the matter of your other brother..."_ _

__"I won't go against Jon," Sansa cuts in. "What I meant was, who would they choose between Daenerys and me."_ _

__"But that's the wrong question, Sansa." Petyr rises onto his elbows, and favours her with his slyest grin. "What you need to ask yourself is, who will Jon choose, between Daenerys and you. I've heard that they couldn't be more dissimilar. Your dark brother and the fair queen. But sometimes, it's the unlikeliest alliances that yield the strongest matches, and out there, their men already hail them as king and queen."_ _

__"Rumours," Sansa says dismissively._ _

__"And yet," Petyr smiles. "You were the one who came in here, asking me about rumours, thinking the right rumour could put you on the throne. Here's my advice. Remind the North what it owes to the Starks. Remind your people that they already have a queen. Don't rely on your brother Jon. He'll betray you, eventually. You might not believe me just now, but you'll come round. And then, you'll know where to find me."_ _

__"You're wrong."_ _

__She's convinced that his distrust of Jon is unfounded, motivated by jealousy alone. She remembers how he'd hesitated before handing over Jon's letter._ _

__But Petyr has also taken his distances with her. His overtures have become less insistent, as if suddenly, he could be bothered to wait. And though a part of her is relieved, she can't help but worry. More than ever, it feels like he's holding onto a secret that he be should sharing._ _

_Dear Jon,_

_Everyone here has gone mad with hope. I know better than to trust the rumours. Some say you struck down the Night King, and that when you did, your arm turned to ice, and broke into a thousand pieces. Others speak of burning swords. I really hope the ones we sent you were good for something. They didn't look like Valyrian steel, not that I know much about swords. But I shudder to think that your soldiers could use them and find out, too late, that we failed to produce the weapons you needed._

_I suppose hope doesn't become us Starks. We have a tendency to always envision the worst. At least, it can teach us to value what we have. Your letter did make me smile. For a while, I almost thought I was there with you. But I'd rather you didn't try to shield me. I want to know what you're going through. Is Lord Reed as stern as his daughter, and as fiercely protective? I understand how he could have been friends with father. In some ways, Meera reminds me of you. She's very reasonable and rather quiet, but she knows how to make herself heard. Bran says she's a formidable warrior._

_It's been a few days since we last saw Queen Daenerys and her dragons. I try to convince myself that this is a good sign, and that you are headed towards the final battle. I try to hold on to the thought that your men love you, and that they won't let you face the end alone, whatever may come._

_But I know you, Jon. I know you'll charge towards the Night King on your own, with your sword held high. And what will help you then? Ghost girls and dragons? What if Ghost isn't close-by - and what if he is, and you lose him too?_

_I refuse to mourn you. I refuse to see your statue join the kings in the crypts of Winterfell. You said you'd come back. For the love of me, come back. And I'll stay strong, and wait - for the love of you._

_Sansa_

__

__

__"What are you thinking of?"_ _

__Sansa turns towards Bran. She'd been watching the red canopy above their heads, thinking of blood. The blood of dead men on a battlefield she'll never see, and the red mud under the trampled corpses on the plain where Jon's army met Ramsay's. Every red leaf on the heart tree stands for a sinister memory. Blood on the Hound's handkerchief, after Ser Meryn had struck her. Blood on her sheets, and the pounding of her heart whenever Ramsay drew near._ _

__These aren't thoughts that should be shared._ _

__"A woman gave birth last night," she says, because it's the first thing that comes to her mind. "It went well - there was a midwife, and Maester Torren was nearby. But it reminded me of us, when we were children. D'you remember how Old Nan used to call you?"_ _

__"Summer child," Bran says softly._ _

__"Yes... And this child will grow up, and he won't know what summer is."_ _

__"There'll be another summer," Bran says. "And another winter after that." He reclines against the trunk of the heart tree, his eyes drifting closed. "We'll live to see another summer," he mumbles._ _

__"Is this something you've seen?"_ _

__She doesn't know what to make of Bran's visions. It's not that she doesn't believe him. But it's not something that can be explained away, and as such, it scares her._ _

__"No," Bran says with a small smile, his eyes still closed. "I can feel it. Can't you?"_ _

__"I wish I could," she says. The tremulous note in her voice causes him to turn towards her again, with that fixed stare that she finds slightly unnerving. She looks away, tightening the folds of her cloak around her._ _

__"You said they were winning," Bran says. "You said that's what the message said."_ _

__"Robb was winning, too, until he died."_ _

__She regrets saying it the moment the words are out of her mouth, but the damage is done. Now it's not the bodies of strangers that she sees, but Robb's, with the head of his direwolf sewn onto his shoulders, and then the sword falls upon her father's head -- and she looks up and it's Ned Stark's face in the leaves, while Joffrey laughs behind her. Before she can avoid it, she's thinking of Jon too, lying bloodied and broken on a field of snow, as a wight takes a sword to Ghost's neck..._ _

__A hand settles on her arm. She jumps, badly startled, but it's only Bran, with his sad, compassionate eyes._ _

__"You're just tired," he says. "They're not visions."_ _

"Let's go back in," Sansa stammers. _Focus on the food stores. Focus on the cattle and the reopening of the market tomorrow._ She stands up, brushing the snow off her cape. Two of the knights are waiting beyond the trees, ready to carry Bran back to the castle.

__"Maybe we could have you ride around the yard tomorrow," she suggests, trying to sound lively._ _

__She's thinking of the long night ahead, and how he'll spend it secluded in his room, with only Meera for company. Sansa likes the girl, but Meera doesn't fare well when she's cooped up in a stifling room, and neither does Bran._ _

__"I'd like that," Bran smiles._ _

"It will be something to look forward to, for the both of us," Sansa decides. Perhaps she should have known that this outing wouldn't come to pass. There were cues, after all: her bloody nightmares, and the lack of news from the frontlines, and these rumours of victory, too good to be true.

__She's on her way to Bran's room when Meera barrels into her. The two girls spontaneously latch onto each other to find their balance. In the light of a nearby torch, Sansa catches a glimpse of Meera's face. The blood has all but withdrawn from her cheeks, and her eyes are frantic._ _

"What is it?" Sansa asks, her voice hollow. Something has happened to Bran - and she prepares to run, despite the gaping void that has opened beneath her feet. She should have been beside him, and not on the other side of the castle, _counting grain..._

__Meera manages to catch her breath. She's also regained some of her composure, though when she speaks, her voice wavers._ _

__"Bran says they're in the castle."_ _

__At first, Sansa refuses to take her seriously. Amidst the strange new normalcy that has settled over the castle, the statement sounds outlandish and absurd. Only this morning, a new contingent of soldiers came from the Riverlands, sent by her uncle Edmure, and the meal she shared with the northern ladies was nearly festive. It has all felt like a game: playing at being queen, sending soldiers off to war, and entertaining her court with descriptions of the new market and tales of the valour of the northern troops..._ _

__"They'd have to tear down the walls of Winterfell, like they brought down the Wall," she says. "The castle is protected by spells."_ _

__Granted, the Wall had been, too. Sansa has known since the beginning of the war that there might come a day when the castle would fall. But it was a thought she didn't dwell upon - because for the castle to fall, the army would have to have failed, and if that happened, it hardly mattered what became of the castle, or of her._ _

_I'll be rushing back to you. I want to turn round in that courtyard and find you there -_

 

__"... and when the Night King touched him, he gained some sort of knowledge of Bran's whereabouts. I think he'll find us wherever we are, even if we're protected by wards. That's why we didn't go through the Wall until it fell down, that's why we didn't want to stop here. We could try leaving now, but if they're already in the castle, it won't buy you much time."_ _

__"Slow down," Sansa orders. "You're saying they're tracking Bran? Even if they have a way to get past the gates, someone would have sounded an alarm by now. I passed through the yard on my way here, and I didn't see anything amiss."_ _

__But at the same time, she's thinking of the many tunnels beneath Winterfell, of the crypts that extend far beyond the castle. And then there's Hunter's Gate, which they never did man as well as they did the King's Gate..._ _

__"I have to stay with Bran," Meera says quickly. "Can you raise the alarm and send some of your knights to help me protect him? Bran is trying to reach Jon, but they must be fighting, too..."_ _

__Sansa wants to ask how Bran could contact Jon when he's miles away, and probably fighting for his life._ _

__She remembers Edmure's troops, who left hours ago to travel northwards on the King's Road, and who might still be reached, perhaps..._ _

"Takes this," Meera says, pressing something into her unresponsive hand. Sansa looks down. It's one of the dragonglass daggers. She takes it with some reluctance, uncertain how it's meant to be held. It looks more like a carved stone than a dagger, and the irregular edges of the handle bite into her palm.

__No sooner has Sansa accepted the dagger that Meera runs off, rushing back to Bran._ _

__Sansa gazes hesitantly up and down the corridor. She's a courtyard away from the rookery, and there used to be a bridge connecting the rookery to the Bell Tower, but it had collapsed when Ramsay had set fire to the castle. She tries to think of an alternative route. Hopefully, she'll find help along the way.__

Reasserting her grip on the dagger, she gathers the folds of her skirt and begins to run down the corridor, retracing her steps towards the stairs. She has barely set foot on the steps that a distant sound causes her to pause. She whips towards the window, holding her breath.

__Since the beginning of the war, she has only heard the alarm bell twice. The first time, it had called the northerners to arms. The second time was only a few nights ago, when a fire erupted in one of the granaries. The first time the bell had sounded grave and ponderous. The second time, it was frantic and urgent. Now, the rhythm is erratic - as if the bell-ringer needed to rest between swings._ _

__With as light a step as she can, Sansa draws closer to the windows. She tries to stay out of the light as she peers outside._ _

__A few moments ago, when she'd walked through that courtyard, it had been empty, with only her tracks breaking the white expanse of freshly-fallen snow. But now there are dark shapes in the snow, as if the contents of a cart had spilled onto the ground. The more she looks, the stranger the scene becomes. She could swear that the shapes are arranged in a pattern, a circle with a line running down the centre. And then, just as she identifies the formless masses for what they are - _bodies, body parts_ \- a skeletal figure steps into the yard. It has skin the colour of ice under the light. In snatches of harried consciousness, Sansa notices the bone-white hair and the gaunt cheekbones, the glass-like sword and the black armour._ _

__It takes all her willpower to step back slowly, when she would much rather throw herself upon the curtains. But when she can finally edge away from the window-frame, the creature below hasn't moved. It hasn't looked up._ _

__Distantly, Sansa realizes that the bell is still ringing, and that other sounds can be heard, too, piercing cries and rushing footsteps, the abrupt and startling crash of objects being knocked over. The sounds wouldn't seem so out of place if they didn't occur in the middle of such a heavy silence, as if the castle had just taken a deep breath, and was liable to come tumbling down upon the exhale. After some deliberation, she lowers herself to the ground, holding onto the nearest curtain and clutching the dagger to her chest. It's a long crawl to the end of the corridor, with her knees snagging onto her dress and the shadows pressing in on her. But she doesn't dare get up, lest the creature in the yard should see her. If only the torches weren't lit - suddenly the light feels as treacherous as the creeping shadows._ _

__At the end of the corridor, she scrambles onto her feet and rushes through the door. Thankfully, the staircase leading to Bran's room doesn't have any windows. When he'd arrived, she'd thought of giving him a room on the ground floor. But it hadn't seemed right, as if she were punishing him for his crippled legs. If his fall hadn't robbed him of his love of heights, she wasn't going to tie him to the ground. So they'd set him up at the top of one of the towers, far from the bustle of the lower floors, and close enough to the rookery that he'd see the ravens fly past his window._ _

__"Bran? Meera?"_ _

__She hears the sound of a bolt sliding free. The door at the top of the stairs opens with a creak. Meera barely allows enough space for Sansa to slide in, and wastes no time in closing the door behind her._ _

__"I couldn't get anyone," Sansa says in a rush. "I'm sorry. They were already in the courtyard, and I think I saw... I think they killed the red women. I think I saw their corpses. But I don't understand how it could have happened so fast..."_ _

__"There are fires all over the castle, but it's hard to tell if they were accidental or not," Meera says, stepping towards the window._ _

She's put on her old clothes, her smelly furs and her thick-soled boots. Though they don't look like much to Sansa, Meera wears them proudly. She's strapped a dragonglass dagger to her leg, and when she turns, the shiny black surface catches the firelight. Sansa thinks of ice, of that black ice their parents would always warn them against. Rotten ice, Catelyn would say. Too frail to hold their weight, but still cutting enough to slice their hands. Meera has also found a scabbard, which she's tied around her hips with a messy knot. The sword keeps banging against her legs. Judging from the inelegant pommel, it must be one of the steel weapons that they build in the forges -- the so-called "enchanted swords".

__"I think they came hours ago," Bran says. He's sitting in front of the fireplace, with another dragonglass dagger across his legs. "They probably hid somewhere, and now they're coming out."_ _

__"How many are there?" Sansa asks. "Can my knights hold them back? Do you think the maester had time to send a message to the Tully forces?"_ _

__"Bran says it's a dozen of them, maybe less," Meera says. "We're hoping this means they're losing in the north. It could be a last-ditch attempt... But they can't get to Bran. We can't let them turn him. I think if they do, we'll lose. It won't matter how many we kill or what weapons we have."_ _

__Bran is watching this conversation with the silent patience of one used to being discussed as if he weren't there, or as if he were a commodity, rather than an active party. Sansa goes to him without thinking, kneeling beside his seat and touching his knee._ _

__"It's alright," she says. "We'll think of something."_ _

__It's as optimistic as she can be without making promises she can't keep._ _

__"If they come up," Meera tells her, "use the dagger, don't think twice about it. And if I'm wounded, use it on me."_ _

"I don't know how," Sansa says, because she can't say, _I can't stab you_. All the while thinking, would she rather Meera brought her back, too, if she were about to die? Bran has told her enough about Benjen; she knows that dragonglass doesn't grant you a second life. _Or if it does, it's a cold-blooded life, with unfeeling limbs and a slow-beating heart._

__"You'd have to stab me in the heart," Meera says. "Before I die and become a wight."_ _

__"Then you'll do it for me, too," Sansa decides. "If it comes to that."_ _

__"I need to dream," Bran murmurs. He keeps darting glances at the heavy wooden door. "But I'm afraid they'll find us faster if I do. Like they did last time."_ _

__"Do what you must," Sansa says. She grasps his hand and squeezes it, once, before letting go. "We'll block the door. We only have to hold out until morning, don't we? They don't come out by day."_ _

__For a brief moment she thinks of Petyr, of the knights of the Vale, of the villagers and farmers and of the many noble households that currently reside in Winterfell._ _

__Petyr will no doubt still be alive when the dawn comes, but the others are her subjects, and she can't help but feel like she's deserting them._ _

__"Help me push that chest in front of the door," Meera calls from the other side of the room. "Then one of us can stand guard by the window."_ _

__In front of the fireplace, Bran has slumped down in his chair. Sansa thinks she can see the whites of his eyes, but she doesn't really linger to make sure._ _

__"Here, if you can lift it a little, and I'll push it," she says. She braces herself against the chest, and with Meera pulling the handle on the other side, they manage to drag it towards the door._ _

__Sansa takes a moment to catch her breath before they pivot the chest against the door. She's about to start pushing again, when Meera makes a strange, strangled sound, like the air has been snatched from her lungs._ _

__The last thing Sansa wants to do is raise her head. But she does, her hand already going to the blade at her hip. Yet, somehow, Meera is quicker - Sansa has barely taken in the ghastly sight of her, with the translucent point sticking through her chest, that the girl has pulled the steel blade from her belt and shoved it under her arm and through the door, all the way to the graceless hilt, as if there weren't been several inches of wood between her and the creature; as if there wasn't a thick layer of armour between the door and the White Walker's skin._ _

__The White Walker's blade crumbles, raining glassy fragments upon the chest and the floor. Sansa rushes forward to catch Meera as she falls, hearing like an echo of the shattering blade on the other side of the door. She hopes it means the creature is dead. There's no one to confirm that to her, or to tell her what to do - Bran is still lying back in his chair, staring unseeingly at the flames, and Meera pants softly between her arms, staring down at her bloodied furs._ _

__"Do it," Meera grimaces, lifting a trembling hand to grip Sansa's fingers. "You have to do it."_ _

__Sansa shakes her head._ _

__"If we can get you to the maester..."_ _

__"Tomorrow," Meera stutters._ _

__"Tomorrow will come soon enough," Sansa lies. "Come on, let's get you to the bed..."_ _

__They don't make it that far. When Meera bids her to stop, Sansa does, and leans her against the bedframe. She parts the layers of leather and fur over Meera's breast._ _

__"Alright," she murmurs. "I'll try to clean it. But first..." She glances back towards the door, and the chest, which they had been about to turn round when the White Walker attacked. "I have to block the door. Here." She finds her handkerchief, presses it against the wound. "Hold this. I'll be right back."_ _

__And so she gets back to her feet, and resumes a task that had already been difficult with Meera's help. When at last the chest is up against the door, she hurries back to Meera. Using the basin and ewer by the bed, she tries to clean the wound. The blade went in through Meera's back, slipping between the ribs and exiting at her side. Sansa tears clean strips of cloth and ties them around Meera's waist. There's blood all over her hands and down the front of her dress. She remembers the heart tree, and how every red leaf upon it had seemed like an omen._ _

__"Hold on a little longer," Sansa whispers. "When the morning comes, I'll go for help." And because she doesn't quite know what else to do, she huddles close to Meera, slides an arm around her shoulders, and holds fast to her hand._ _

__"What if... another one comes?" Meera asks, teeth chattering._ _

__"Well, I'll just stick my sword through the door, the way you did," Sansa says, attempting a smile._ _

__She doesn't say that if the White Walker's blade could pass so easily through several inches of wood, it won't have any trouble cutting down the door. She doesn't say that this solitary creature might have been the one she'd seen in the courtyard, and that this whole encounter could be her fault. Maybe the creature saw her, when she looked through the window._ _

She draws out her dragonglass blade, and lets it rest against her leg. Meera's chest rises and falls against her side. _If her breathing slows_ , she tells herself, though another voice is telling her _do it, do it now._

__While they sit on the floor, she can't see much of what's going on beneath the tower. There's only the night sky, black verging on dark blue, and the occasional blood-curdling cry. A few ravens fly back into the rookery. Sansa decides to take it as a sign that the assault is winding down._ _

__"Are you still with me?" she whispers._ _

__Meera vaguely hums in assent. If not for her faintly rattling breath, Sansa could think that the White Walker's sword has changed them both into statues of ice._ _

__Somewhere between one breath and the next, she finds the strength to ask, "Now?"_ _

__"Jojen had a path," Meera mumbles. "I just followed."_ _

__"You're a leader in your own right, Meera Reed," Sansa says. Of all the people in the castle, she wishes Lyanna Mormont were here, with her contagious pride. But it's only her and a barely conscious girl, so she tightens her grip on the dagger._ _

__"I'm sorry," she whispers._ _

__"Meera?"_ _

__At the sound of Bran's voice, Meera's eyes brighten. She half-rises from Sansa's shoulder, and her hand twitches in Sansa's grip. She looks so alert all at once, so alive. Sansa drops the dagger as if it had burnt her hand._ _

__"Jon is coming," Bran says._ _

__Sansa drags herself to the window, half-rises to look at the castle below. At first glance, Winterfell is empty, silent and still. But the more she looks, the more movement she sees. Small black shadows are stocking a fire in the main yard, and someone is going down the stairs of the library tower with a candle in hand, lighting up one window after the next. Certain areas of the castle are still plunged into darkness, and she tries not to imagine what might have happened, and what might still be happening inside these black voids._ _

__"I think it's mostly over," she says. "I think we'll be fine, for now."_ _

__When she looks back, it's to find Bran and Meera sitting side by side. It's hard to tell which one crawled towards the other. Perhaps it was the both of them. Bran seems rather lost, and like he'd very much like to hold Meera's hand, but doesn't dare to. Sansa wonders if she looked as helpless a few minutes ago, when she was the one stealing worried glances at Meera, wondering if the girl would make it through the night. She turns back towards the window, clutching the windowsill with her blood-stained hands._ _

__"The sun is coming up," she whispers, a little breathless. It's something of an exaggeration. The sky upon the horizon is slightly clearer, tinged with blue. "I'm going to find help," Sansa decides._ _

__This gets her the attention of the other two. Meera is too exhausted to put up much of a protest, so it falls to Bran, who stares at Sansa as if she'd suddenly grown a second head._ _

__"What if you come across one of them?" he asks, with a frown that probably means to be intimidating. It reminds her of Jon._ _

__"We can't let her bleed to death," Sansa says, picking up the dagger and tucking it under her belt. She retrieves Bran's and sets it down by his side. She doesn't dare share the conclusion that she's come to, as she sat for what seemed like ages, doused in blood and watching Meera's strength wane. But it doesn't make it any less true. She knows she won't be of any use if a White Walker attacks them, and she'd rather try and get help, than to have to watch them die._ _

__"Sansa," Bran whispers. He holds out his arms. Sansa embraces him, drawing comfort from his familiar smell, and from the heat of the fire at her back. Spontaneously, she embraces Meera too, and kisses her clammy cheek._ _

__"Hold on a little longer," she tells her._ _

__She helps Bran to the door, so that he might put the chest back into place after she's left. On the other side of the door, the staircase is empty, though the steps are damp with melted ice. In the light of her wavering candle, she catches a last glimpse of Bran's face._ _

__"I don't want you to go," he whispers, though his eyes dart back towards Meera as he says it, and she can sense his hesitation._ _

__"I know," she whispers back. The door shuts._ _

__The tower is far more silent than it was when she made her ascent - gone are the cries and the distant ruckus of furniture being knocked over. Whenever she slows down to knock upon a door, she's met with more silence. The corridors are deserted. Yet people have passed through these halls: here and there she finds torches, and even a roaring fire behind a heavy grate. After the bustle of the past weeks, when it seemed as if the castle contained more people than it could hold, this haunted walk is an unsettling experience. Once or twice, Sansa even wonders if she hasn't passed into another world entirely. Perhaps the three of them died during the night, and she's only becoming aware of it now, as she retraces her steps through the empty castle._ _

__As she nears the small courtyard where she'd seen the White Walker, she comes to a halt, not knowing which direction to take. A look through the windows warns her that the bodies of the red women are still outside, lying in pieces upon the snow. She can face that disturbing sight, or swerve into another empty hallway, and continue upon her ghostly route._ _

__She's just about made up her mind to stay indoors, when she hears a sound that causes her to pause, and then to change directions. A screech, piercing and prolonged. It penetrates deep into the darkest recesses of the slumbering castle._ _

__Sansa hastens towards the courtyard, already looking up. She catches a glimpse of a tail, the pointed end snapping stone before it disappears around the side of the Broken Tower._ _

__Her relief is short-lived, however. No sooner has she stepped outside that she's chilled to the bone. She blames her trembling limbs on the harrowing night, and on the crisp morning air. Her candle went out the moment she opened the door, so she sets it down in favour of rubbing her arms._ _

__As she steps further into the yard, she's careful to stay well away from the circle of bloody remains. In the distance, she sees the black dragon rise above the watch-towers of the south wall. With a powerful bellow that could be a warning or a war-cry, it releases a torrent of flame upon the courtyard below. Sansa feels a pang of worry for the Godswood, though the dragon might not be alone, and Daenerys would know not to unleash it upon the weirwood. On the other side of the castle, Viserion is flying low above the ramparts. She's craning her neck, trying to follow its progress, when somewhere, off to her right, something moves._ _

__She freezes._ _

__He could have been here all along. His skin is the same greyish-blue as the faint dawn-light, parched and scarred with curving patterns that outline his eyes and cheeks. The ridges above his brow form an uneven, bone-like crown, beneath which the blue eyes blaze like a contained storm._ _

__He must have moved so she'd notice him, perhaps to see what she would do._ _

__Sansa remains where she is. To him, it might seem like she's staring him down, but the truth is that there's nowhere to go. And though she should probably scream, in the hope of attracting someone else, or one of the dragons, she doesn't dare put an end to this fragile stillness. It feels too much like the prelude to a battle she's bound to lose._ _

__She glances towards the door and back, and the White Walker follows her gaze. As she releases a shaky exhale, she feels the air turn to frost against her lips._ _

__The White Walker takes a slow, steady step, and goes still, gauging her reaction. Sansa takes an answering step back. The White Walker takes another step, and again, Sansa retreats, her foot sliding backwards._ _

__The back of her boot collides with something, which she thinks must be a mound of snow. But the thing slithers and closes, vice-like, around her leg. She can't help but gaze down, and her eyes widen in horror. Slender fingers circling her ankle - a slender wrist ending in a splintered bone - blue veins, dancing upwards towards bloody knuckles. She has stepped into the circle of severed limbs._ _

__Vainly she tries to shake herself free, and then leans down to forcefully pry the dead fingers from her leg. By now she's given up on any pretence of calm. She would be crying if the air wasn't so cold; her tears turn to ice before they have left her eyes. The White Walker resumes his advance, prompting her to retreat further, though when she does so she finds herself trapped by another weight that presses down upon her foot. Catching sight of the long blade of ice that hangs from the White Walker's hand, she remembers her dagger, and tears it precipitously from her belt. With it she slashes at the hand holding her leg, and then at the bulky shape that crushes her foot._ _

__Finally, she finds it in herself to yell. The first scream seems to shatter the cold air around her, and every scream after that grows louder and shriller. The White Walker is only a few feet away, though he has yet to lift his sword. Instead, when he draws within reach, he extends a hand towards her face, as if he meant to stroke her cheek._ _

__Sansa tries to free the dagger from the body of the still-convulsing wight. She tries to step away from the White Walker's hand. When the weight upon her feet refuses to give way, she gathers what little strength she has left, and throws herself down._ _

__She doesn't expect it to work - she expects a rush of air, the sword slamming into her face, or that gnarled hand closing around her hair. And indeed something knocks into her, catching her square in the back so that she falls sideways. She hits the ground hard._ _

__Dimly she's aware of a wing passing over her head, of a sudden wave of heat breaking against the soles of her boots. The fall has knocked the breath out of her. Her head is ringing. Above her the dragon screams - behind her, she hears the clashing of swords. She presses her arm into the snow, rises enough to turn back and look._ _

__Through the haze of snow and smoke and fire, her vision swimming, she glimpses a dark shadow, and the steely line of a blade. The sword comes down again, sliding beneath the White Walker's blade and catching against his neck. The blade doesn't sink into flesh. For a strenuous instant it seems like the White Walker's neck will give, like the sword will crack, like Jon's wrists will bend and snap under the pressure._ _

__Then the ice splinters, the sword shatters. And the Night King breaks._ _

__Sansa is once again flattened to the ground as a wave of ice and steel courses over her, shards nicking her hands and scalp as they rush by._ _

The debris has barely settled that she hears a strangled cry behind her. _"Sansa!"_

__Jon's voice doesn't sound like his own, garbled by smoke and fear. As he fell away from the sweeping tide of ice, he must have passed straight through the still-burning flames of the dragon's fire. Now he lies in the snow, vainly trying to move as the flames rise and ripple above his burning armour._ _

__Forgetting her leaden limbs, Sansa scrambles forward on her elbows and knees. As soon as she comes within reach, she throws the hem of her waterlogged dress over Jon's burning armour, and then she buries him in snow, handfuls and armfuls until the fire subsides, and she can collapse, at last, at his side.__

The only sound aside from the wind is the steady rumble of the dragon's breathing.

Knowing she won't have the strength to rise, Sansa turns her head. To the left, first, where the fire is dying down, and the dispersing smoke reveals the crooked pattern of a dark blue scar upon the icy ground. The broken pommel of Jon's sword lies further still, blackened and bent out of shape. Slowly, she turns the other way. Jon reaches out between their bodies and closes his gloved fingers around her icy palm. He breathes harshly, his dark eyes wide, and beneath the matted curls she can faintly make out the traces of cuts and bruises. There must be some upon her face as well - she can feel the blood trickling down her cheek.

There is so much she wants to say. _Did you fly here upon a dragon's back? Is it truly over? Meera. We must help Meera._

__But it'll be another few minutes before she can find the strength to speak. So she clutches Jon's hand, and tries to communicate as much as she can through that shaking grip. And she looks into his eyes, until he manages to crawl a little closer. He smells like the forges, iron and smoke. When he kisses her, burning mouth to cold lips, she tastes snow on his tongue, and blood on her own._ _

And when she's finally able to speak, she forgets what she'd meant to say. For a disorienting moment, all she can do is whisper, slow and soft against his mouth, "You came back. You came back."


	5. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What was I, then?" she says coldly. "A wartime distraction?"

He dreams of Viserion. They are flying above the river again, following Drogon's large shadow. Jon has let himself be lulled to a stupor by the steady movement of Drogon's wings. The landscape beneath him is a dark void, with the occasional glint of water and ice. Above his head, the sky is all stars, all the way to Winterfell where the horizon turns into a searing vision of smoke and flames.

Jon wouldn't know what the castle is supposed to look like from such a height. After all, he doesn't make a habit of riding dragons. The sky above Winterfell might be red every night, set afire by the forges. But whether these fires are incidental or not, they make it seem like Winterfell is burning down. Dread blooms inside him, like another fire, swift and destructive. It forces him to face a part of him that he would rather ignore, a man who seeks loss and destruction if only because they will give him a reason to lay the world to waste. And as the dragon's powerful body rises and falls beneath him, in a terrifying dance of blood-red scales and blood-red wings, he tries to rein in this thirst for vengeance.

There might be no cause for it, after all. Bran and Sansa might be unharmed - and Winterfell will go on standing, in spite of the White Walkers and the fires, in spite of the many wars of the past and the many wars to come.

Daenerys shouts a command and the dragons slow down, beating their wings against the wind. They hold aloft for a brief moment that has Jon clutching the ridges of Viserion's spine as his stomach does a somersault. Then they alter their course, the both of them swerving east towards the castle, as Daenerys and Jon lean forwards upon their backs, trying to shield themselves from the wind.

But contrary to Jon's memories of that night, in the dream he's distracted, and unable to focus fully on the flight.

A fragment of him remains tethered to the ground below, to this other creature of sinewy strength, Ghost with his snow-coloured fur and his silences like the daunting night sky. The direwolf runs along the riverbank, his paws never quite touching the icy ground. Instinctively Jon follows, leaning into the wind as Ghost bounces over snowdrifts and dives in between scraggy trees. And as he matches his movements to those of the direwolf, he loses his balance in the sky above.

He leans too far, and fails to accompany the rocking motion of Viserion's back. Suddenly he feels the ground pulling at him, and he loosens his grip and feels his body topple sideways. Before he knows it, there is a tree coming ahead and his paws are skidding upon the ice and the sky is suddenly in front of his eyes instead of above his head, countless stars rushing towards him or rushing away, and he must make a choice - must settle for the sky or the ground and sever the other connection before he loses his mind.

"Ghost," he sputters, half-rising from the bed.

But this isn't the open plain, and this isn't the sky. His body gradually reacquaints itself with the softness of a real bed, and with the warmth of a real room, where the walls do not shake with every gust of wind.

Then he looks down and sees her, red hair like spun gold against his breast and with her hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt. Further down he catches a glimpse of a bare calf and promptly averts his eyes, his face burning. 

His face and other less redeemable parts of his body, which he would currently be willing to douse in snow. He nearly steps out of the bed, thinking to open the window and stick his head out until his blood cools down.

But it feels unfair. After the many ruthless nights, after Bran's cryptic warning and the strained flight, with the world so far below and the dragon's restlessness echoing his own, after the heart-stopping sight of Sansa in that courtyard, and the surge of hopelessness he'd felt in that fleeting moment when the sword had failed to cut through the Night King's neck -- I _deserve_ this, he thinks, selfish and tired. He lets himself sink back into the bed and the downy pillow. He puts his arm around Sansa's neck, and buries his nose in her hair.

He barely remembers how they got here. After he'd struck down the Night King, they'd remained for some time in the courtyard, until Sansa had somehow mustered the strength to rise. They needed to warn the castle, she'd said, and Meera Reed had been wounded, and was in need of help. And though Jon had been nearly blind with exhaustion by then, he wasn't about to let her wander off on her own.

They walked awhile before finding anyone, and Sansa bore the better part of his weight along the way, slinging his arm across her shoulders and letting him lean against her side. Finally they'd stumbled across Lyanna in the main yard, where the lady was presiding over the burning of corpses. The situation had promptly passed into her competent hands. Someone - the Maester? - had cleaned Jon's cuts and burns. And apparently, at some point after that, Sansa and him had wandered back to his room - and back to his bed.

"Don't go," she whispers drowsily, her voice muffled by his shirt.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He can't quite decide if he wants to go back to sleep, or if he'd rather watch her - the delicate curve of her rosy cheek under a lock of coppery hair, the lovely hand clutching his shirt and the slender lines of her bare arm under the bunched up fabric of her sleeve. His hand seems to move of its own accord, and he brushes his knuckles against her jaw and traces the contours of her ear, and gently pushes the hair away from her sleeping face. He's careful not to touch the cuts on her face. He's careful not to wake her.

He's careful not to be too obvious about how much he wants her.

The wild rush of relief he'd felt after defeating the Night King is gone, and he wouldn't dare kiss her now, not as carelessly as he had in that courtyard. Some things can be said in the heat of a war that must be buried and forgotten in times of peace. He sees now that they've been behaving like children - living in a fantasy where they would rule side by side, and fall into the same bed with tangled limbs and tangled dreams.

"What is it?" Sansa asks. Reaching up, she tries to smooth his troubled brow with a gentle hand.

"Nothing," Jon says, thoroughly miserable.

Sansa laughs. "But you look so hopeless. Don't you have everything you've ever wanted? The name is yours, and the castle is yours. There's a crown on your head and the war is over."

Jon stills her fingers, clasps her hand tight and plants a kiss across her knuckles.

"Right now I do," he murmurs, like it's a secret he shouldn't be sharing. He smiles, hesitantly at first and then wider, heart brimming with something he can't quite name. Relief and delight and underneath it all, an undercurrent of frantic fear.

"I didn't think I'd ever be happy again," Sansa whispers back. "When we ran away, Theon and I, I thought the best we could do was survive. Survive and maybe try to fight back. Even when I found you... The only thing that kept me going was the thought of Ramsay in Winterfell. Of what we'd lost. But then Bran came back... And you wrote to me." She frees her hand from his grip and strokes his bearded cheek. "Did you mean everything you wrote?"

"Did you?" he asks, his head full of her letters and of their tenderly scolding tone.

"Of course."

"For the love of me, and for the love of you?" he says, softly, and threads their fingers together.

A hundred battles behind his eyelids and the wind of future battles at his back. But this is safety, this is enough happiness in a breath to last him a lifetime. He savours the last few moments before he rises, gathers her into his arms and holds her close. He's deliriously aware that this is all they have, this accidental morning before propriety reasserts its rights. So he kisses her mouth and her nose and the tender skin of her neck under the silky red hair, and he kisses her hands, fingers and palms and the soft inside of her wrists. Since their reunion at Castle Black, most if not all of their encounters had been tinged with desperation, but there's none of that now. Sansa is smiling, and it's impossible to kiss that smiling mouth and not be filled with reckless joy.

"I'll go see if we're needed somewhere," Jon says.

He dresses himself in a hurry, throwing on the necessary layers to face the winter cold. But he's quite conscious that it's make-believe, some pathetic attempt at soothing his sense of duty. For the most part, he intends to open the door, find an empty corridor and go back to bed. Then he'll be able to laze for another few hours with his head in Sansa's lap, like the tamed direwolf that he is.

Sansa watches him dress in silence, and it's only when he's done and headed towards the door that her voice rises at his back, a demand disguised as a plea.

"You defeated the Night King. Surely the world can give you a day to spend with me. You should just... Jon? What is it?"

But he can't answer. At first, he's so taken aback that he can't even move.

Arya has jumped to her feet the moment he opened the door. She'd been sitting cross-legged in the corridor, with - and it's another staggering blow - Needle propped against her knee. Now she stands undecided, as if there was any doubt to be had about the next move to make.

Jon grabs a hold of her, quite forgetful of the sword. His arms and hands are ahead of his mind somehow, holding her fast while he stares in shock at the wall ahead.

Arya clings to his collar, her legs wrapped tight around his middle. Needle has clattered to the floor, though he can feel another sword around her waist. The scabbard keeps bumping against the back of his legs.

"Arya?"

Sansa's voice seems to come from a distance, though when Jon raises his head she's standing on the threshold. She looks as stunned as he does and very pale. He can distinctly see the red lines of cuts across her cheeks, and the purple haloes of bruises and exhaustion.

Arya twists in Jon's arms, turns round to look at Sansa. Jon gets a sudden view of her profile, wide grey eyes and unruly brown hair and the stubborn set of her small mouth.

"Sansa," she says, in a tone that is part Bran and part Robb - part thoughtfulness, and part taunt.

Sansa hovers for a second, her eyes uncertain. Then - and before Jon can be quite sure that the tears rolling down her cheeks aren't a trick of the light - she rushes forward with both arms extended. Jon doesn't have much choice but to relinquish his hold on Arya.

If Arya's a little stiff at first, she relents soon enough, her arms coming up around Sansa's waist.

"I missed you so much," Sansa babbles in Arya's hair. "I can't believe how much I've missed you." Her grip on Arya is tight, but Jon can see her wrinkling her nose. Arya smells like any soldier in Jon's army: as if she'd just spent several weeks in the open, sleeping under rancid furs, next to the cooking-fires and the funeral pyres, with their troubling smell of roasting meat.

As Jon averts his eyes from Sansa's expression of unguarded relief, he notices the sword at Arya's side, with its intricate hilt like golden chainmail, and the stag's head on the cross guard, under an enormous, shiny ruby.

"Arya, where did you find that sword?" he asks, though he feels ridiculous for doing so. Surely this shouldn't be his more pressing concern. There'll be time later to wonder how his little sister could have happened upon the Lannister sword. But the sword has reminded him of Crane. He'd barely seen her after the episode in the forest, save for the distant glint of the sword's blade on the battlefield. Never close enough that he could see her face, yet never so far that she couldn't reach him in a heartbeat should the need arise.

Arya disengages herself from Sansa's arms.

"I can explain," she says. Her face is a painful reminder of the old days, when a six-year old, pint-sized version of her would run barefoot in the yard, ducking under Jory Cassel's extended arm and swerving away from Theon's mocking grin to plummet straight into Catelyn's skirts. _I can explain_ , she'd say, as Catelyn looked down in reproach.

"We have to go tell Bran," Sansa says.

Instinctively, they've fallen back into their old patterns. Sansa ignores his conversation with Arya as she would have some four or five years ago, when she cared little for her hot-headed sister, and not at all for swords - or for her bastard brother. She disappears back inside the room to get dressed, and despite his relief at having been reunited with Arya and his curiosity about the sword, Jon can't help but resent this flight that feels like a desertion. Minutes ago, it had only been the two of them, closer than they'd ever been. _Come back_ , he wants to shout, reason be damned. _Come back right now, before it's too late._

"I knew I couldn't tell you who I was, or you wouldn't have let me fight," Arya says in a rush.

"I... What?" The thought courses through him like a cold wind, raising the hair on his arms and turning his blood to ice. "You fought with us?" His voice is ice, too, treacherous and frail and on the verge of cracking.

"You needed me!" Arya protests.

She's grown a little, but not that much. She still looks like a child, with her big grey eyes and her stick-like limbs. Jon has a vision of her on the battlefield, stumbling away from the snatching hands of a blue-eyed corpse, scurrying under the legs of soldiers. And he can just imagine what the aftermath of that battle would have been - the desperate search, overturning dead men and shields and trying to lift the body of a fallen horse to make sure she hasn't been crushed beneath a thousand pounds of dead flesh.

"Don't faint," Arya pleads, reaching for his arm. With both hands, like she used to when she was trying to drag him into a game. Monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure, and that game where she was a fearless lord and he a treacherous Wildling. He takes a deep breath.

"You could have died a thousand times. You could have been turned into a wight, and I wouldn't have known."

He realizes that his knees are shaking. Blindly, he gropes for the wall and sinks beneath it, willing the gory images to disappear.

"I can fight," Arya protests. "I went to Braavos, and I..." She hesitates. "I trained with the Faceless Men. I know how to... I can pretend to be someone else. When I saw you, in the forest. I wanted to show you my real face. I _really_ wanted to. But you'd have sent me back! You know you'd have. And in Braavos I met this woman, Lady Crane, and it's the first name I thought of. I thought I could help you."

Arya's explanation doesn't make any sense. Besides, most of it goes past Jon, as he grapples with the idea that he sent his younger sister to fight against the White Walkers.

And then Arya sighs in that annoyed but patient way that she has, feet firmly planted in the ground and with her head cocked in latent exasperation. She bites her lip and drags a hand down her face, and everything becomes at once much clearer and far more complicated.

"It's me," Crane says, with Crane's voice. It sounds softer in this empty corridor than it had in the woods, where she'd been screaming against the wind.

Jon stares, flattened against the wall. He barely notices Ghost gliding around the corner, but when the wolf sidles up to him, he provides a welcome anchor. Jon slings an arm around Ghost's head and straightens up a little, though his legs still feel like he's been walking the distance from King's Landing on foot.

"It's me," Arya repeats, and tears off Crane's face like she would tear down a veil. Her mouth twists when she sees Jon's horrified expression, as if she might cry. But she recovers fast. Kneeling down, she extends a hand - boldly on the outset, and then rather more timidly as she comes within reach of Ghost. With much caution, waiting to see how the direwolf will react, she dips her fingertips into the thick white fur, and scratches him behind the ears.

Ghost goes still. Jon feels a tremor run from the great white head to the direwolf's tail. But Ghost's mouth promptly drops open after that, and he whines companionably, swinging his tail.

"Come here," Jon mutters, holding out the arm that isn't clinging to Ghost.

Arya doesn't need to be asked twice. She scoots closer and folds herself against him and for a brief moment, Jon refuses to consider anything but the rapid beat of her heart.

"We really have to tell Bran."

Jon looks up to find Sansa back on the threshold. Their eyes meet. He raises a hand, meaning to reassure her, maybe, though he's not sure about what. Something in her expression has unsettled him - a guardedness that wasn't there before, a tilt to her slight smile that reminds him a little too much of Petyr Baelish. Sansa takes his hand, but she lets go just as quickly. Before Jon has quite had time to understand what is happening, she's disappeared around a corner, without another word and without a second glance.

 

 

They spend the day in Bran's room, as the castle below them celebrates the end of the war. The army is marching home, though Daenerys has dispatched some scouts to the north and the ruins of the Wall. Bran tells Jon that the Queen and her dragons had also flown north during the night, to ascertain that their enemy has truly been vanquished.

Jon can understand Daenerys' misgivings. The war might have ended, but the long winter has just begun. And though the White Walkers appear to be gone, Jon doesn't doubt that they'll return some day, decades if not centuries from now. Eventually, another king will rise, with a horned crown and a sword of ice. Another generation will have to face him.

But not their own. And for now, perhaps they'll be allowed to rest.

Jon has dragged a stool over to Bran's bed, and he sits hunched over with Ghost lying at his feet, basking in the peaceful atmosphere of the room. None of them has said a word about it, but there's a momentous quality to the scene: the last living Starks, gathered at last under the same roof.

Bran is propped up against a pillow on one side of the bed, with his booted feet above the covers. Meera sleeps at his side. Though she's still dreadfully pale, the maester has assured them that she'll recover if given sufficient time to rest. Of course, she'd refused to be moved to another room, so Sansa had a cot brought up for her. When they came in, they found her in Bran's bed. No one said a word about it.

Meanwhile, Arya sits cross-legged on a chest by the fire. She keeps sneaking worried glances in Jon's direction, and he makes a point of smiling at her every time. He must seem ridiculous because he's caught her laughing, once or twice. There was a short quarrel upon reaching the room, when Sansa declared that Arya should remove her weapons before going in. Since Sansa had no particular reasons to make such a demand, it must have stemmed from a sudden urge to reassert her authority.

Arya went in with both swords, and laid out a few extra daggers on the chest upon sitting down. This childish dispute felt so much like the old days that neither Jon nor Bran thought to complain.

As for Sansa, she's settled in the armchair that Jon and Arya have spontaneously left for her. After a moment of indecision, she went and put her feet in Jon's lap. Now he covers them with his hands, these slender feet in their doeskin boots, as if they were in need of warmth and protection.

A loud roar from elsewhere in the castle causes them all to turn towards the window. Meera shifts in her sleep.

"The dragons are back," Jon says.

"Isn't it worrying that we can no longer tell screams of joy from screams of terror?" Sansa wonders aloud. A heavy silence settles as her words sink in.

"Do you remember," Arya says, a little too loud. "The time Theon started screaming and we all thought something dreadful had happened, but when he came in, he'd just stepped on an arrowhead?"

"That wasn't a _happy scream_ ," Sansa says.

"Robb couldn't stop laughing," Arya shrugs.

"I thought he'd choke," Jon remembers, with a ghost of a smile.

"Everyone thought it was funny," Arya tells Sansa. "Even Ser Rodrik."

"I saw him die."

They all turn towards Bran, who delivered this statement in a steady but rather hollow voice.

"Theon killed him," Sansa clarifies.

"I'll have him pay for it," Arya assures Bran. Her expression of fond reminiscence promptly transformed into something sharper and darker and a little unsettling.

"He's paid enough, already," Sansa says. "And what would you do? You can't just go around killing people."

"I've trained with assassins," Arya says. "You don't know what I've done. I've..." She stops short, wide-eyed, and shuts her mouth. Whatever she'd been about to say, she's thought better of it.

"I didn't mean," Sansa begins, uneasily. "I know we can't just go back to the way we were," she tries again. Her eyes meet Jon's, and then fall to his lap, where the folds of her dress conceal her feet and the absent-minded motion of his hand stroking the back of her leg. "We've all been through a lot, and we can't just... We can't dismiss that. So maybe that's what we should start with. We should tell each other what happened while we were away. Or at least," she amends, and suddenly her eyes look as haunted as Bran's, "we should share _some of it_. The things that can be shared."

"When the Wall fell, we nearly got trapped under it," Bran says. Sansa turns to him with a look that succeeds at being both aghast and grateful. "The White Walkers had an enormous horn, it took six of them and two beasts to carry it, enormous beasts with white antlers..."

"We fought some of these," Jon interrupts. "North of the Long Lake."

"I thought they were the biggest creatures I'd ever seen," Bran says, "but that was before the dragons. They blew the horn... The White Walkers or the beasts or something else. Meera and I were hiding at the time, because we weren't sure we could cross the Wall without bringing them along. We were in the forest. Meera had chosen a hill from where we could see what was going on in the valley. I don't think it would have made much difference if we'd been farther back; we'd have felt it anyways. We covered our ears and we could still hear it. The ground and the trees, everything was shaking. There were.... Cracks, in the ground, long cracks as if the ground was breaking too. We weren't far from the edge of the forest and I wanted to see, so Meera took me." He gestures with his hands as he speaks, holding a hand flat to indicate the summit of the Wall, and tracing a sinuous pattern in the air beneath it with his other hand. "It started with a fracture. Down the length of the Wall, close to where we were - close to Castle Black. At first I thought it was only one crack, so I thought, it'll hold, at least for another century, maybe more. But then I saw the other fractures, all these thin lines across the ice. And then I thought, if we can see them from this distance, it must be bad."

"And then it fell down."

Bran looks down at Meera. She hasn't moved, though she's opened her eyes. There's a hint of colour in her sallow cheeks.

"It began to fall down above that first fracture," she says. "Huge chunks falling off and then the sides collapsed and they came down too. After that the entire Wall came down, but not very fast. It was like the cracks were raining snow, and then the powder turned into small morsels and then into entire blocks of ice. And the blocks took down sheets of ice and there was so much white smoke and debris that at first you couldn't tell the Wall was gone."

"It felt like we'd gone deaf and blind," Bran picks up, when Meera's voice falters. "But Meera got us under the trees, so we stayed there until the snow and ice had settled. You couldn't tell where the sky was, and where the ground was. Everything was moving, and there was as much ice in the air as on the ground."

"When I went back to look," Meera goes on, "the plain at the foot of the Wall and the outskirts of the forest had become a huge moraine, with blocks of ice everywhere. It took us a week to get across - I had to make a harness to be able to climb and pull Bran with me. And the White Walkers who'd blown the horn were gone, but we went by the bodies of the beasts, they'd been all torn up by the ice..."

"But the horn was gone," Bran says. "And I don't think they'd let it be destroyed."

He levels a look at Jon, which Jon understands perfectly. _No, this isn't over. Yes, they will return, and this time, we'll need something stronger than a Wall that'll tumble down at the first sound of a magic horn._

"We met a group of Crows on our way south," Meera says. "Four of them, they'd been on their way to Winterfell when the Wall fell, but they'd decided to head back north, to see if they were the last ones left, and to fight if they could..."

"They helped us," Bran says. "They gave us a horse, and food. I think they knew they were going to die, though."

Jon wants to know who the men were. But Bran and Meera already seem so worn out, and maybe the rest of this story is better left for another time.

"I don't think I've thanked you properly," Sansa tells Meera. "For helping our brother - for saving him. We're very grateful, and I..."

"You saved my life, too," Meera interrupts, with impressive aplomb for a girl lying half-dead under a pile of heavy rugs.

"No, I didn't," Sansa says. She looks down at her hands. "I refused to do what you told me, and then I tried to go look for help and ran straight into a White Walker."

"You refused to let me die, and then you found the Night's King, and saved your brother's life," Meera says. "Both your brothers' lives," she amends.

Sansa shifts uncomfortably upon her seat. Jon is quick to let go of her ankle. _Brother indeed_. He'd push her feet off his leg if he dared. Yet when she rights herself in her chair, setting her feet down and arranging the folds of her dress, he finds himself wishing he'd held on.

"What about you?"

Jon turns towards Bran, worried that his face will reflect his troubled thoughts, but Bran wasn't addressing him.

"Oh. Well. I travelled," Arya says, with an uneasy smile.

In a flash, Jon remembers the way her face had changed. He tries to hold on to his earlier feelings of peace and quiet. But it's no easy feat when every one of them seems to have returned eerily transformed from their time away. The naive Sansa is now a schemer, and Bran whom he'd left as a little boy has become a seer, and Arya can swing a sword and transform her appearance at will.

And he walked off a bastard, and returned a dead man, and a ghost, and a king.

"How did you come upon the sword?" Jon asks. "Did you really steal it?"

"It's ours," Arya says, her hand going protectively to the pommel of the sword. "Cersei's the one who stole it. I just took it back. It wasn't difficult - everyone was stealing everything at the end. Cersei's soldiers were off fighting the Targaryen troops. And then Cersei got killed. I'd have done it myself - I wanted to. But I got there too late. I only found the sword."

She draws out the blade. It looks even longer now than it did in the forest, far too long and heavy for her slender arms and her short stature.

"It was Joffrey's sword," she says. "And father's - part of it."

Suddenly Sansa and Bran are sitting up straighter, and leaning forward to watch the grey-blue ripples of light across the blade.

"I couldn't get to Cersei in time, but I found Gregor Clegane," Arya goes on. "Without Cersei to give him orders he was just like some animal. He stomped his way through King's Landing and destroyed as much as he could. Mostly people," she adds, as an afterthought. "I had to cut off his head."

In the stunned silence that follows, Arya turns to Jon with an imploring gaze.

"He was a monster," she says. "I mean, he was always a monster, but they'd done something to him, to save him when he should have died. I couldn't just stab him, it wouldn't have _worked_."

Jon realizes then that it's not the killing she's apologizing for, but the grisliness of it.

"I fed Ramsay Bolton to his hounds," Sansa says.

Another stunned silence. And then Arya smiles.

"I'm happy to be back," she says, as if they hadn't just spent the past few minutes discussing disasters and a variety of gruesome murders.

"Me too," Sansa sighs - and tentatively, she lifts her feet again, and returns them to Jon's lap. He doesn't say a thing, but he feels himself unwind, in a slow  
unravelling from his tense shoulders to the base of his spine.

There are more stories after that, though none of them are storytellers, and it's visible that they're avoiding the worst of their respective tales. Bran tells them of Benjen, and briefly of Hodor, though this last story is vague, and Jon can tell from the many looks that pass between Bran and Meera that they're withholding part of the truth. Sansa talks about Robin Arryn, and then recounts the flight away from Winterfell with Theon, and how Brienne saved their lives. She makes no mention of the fate of their aunt Lysa, though she'd shared this story with Jon some weeks prior, on a long day during which neither of them could sleep. Jon tries to tell them about Sam, and about Edd and Pyp and Grenn. He mentions Tormund, but not Ygritte, though Sansa has heard some of that story, too, on that same day when the rare few sunrays had set fire to her hair, and he'd thought back to another heartache, still simmering under a cold pyre. And Arya attempts to describe Braavos, the Giant and the canals, the many bridges and the market stalls. She speaks of a man with no name, and of wielding a sword in the dark.

"I could show you!" she exclaims suddenly, jumping to her feet. "We'd just need practice sticks so I don't _hurt_ you."

Jon grins at that, but he arms himself with a candlestick, and Arya does, too, and the next few minutes dissolve into a blur of quick spinning moves and incredulous laughter, as Arya closes her eyes and proceeds to parry every one of his cautious attacks. Eventually she just jumps upon him and he falls flat on his back, breaking a candlestick in two as he tries to twist within her grasp, the both of them breathless with laughter.

It's only when he finally manages to lift his head that he sees how the others are looking at him, with startled, searching looks, as if they've never seen him laugh before - as if the sight of his happiness is something to be admired, and treasured.

So he smiles at them, and eventually, they smile back. It's a tired quirk of the lips from Meera, a small, a pensive smile from Bran, and a shadowy smile from Sansa, tender and wistful.

"Do you yield?" Arya asks, though she's collapsed upon him and not in much better shape than he is, and her candlestick lies broken upon the ground.

"I yield," Jon agrees, though he doesn't know if he's addressing her, or the world at large.

He shouldn't be eager to broach the subject, but it has been weighing on him ever since he stepped into the room. He takes advantage of a momentary lapse in the conversation, when Meera has gone back to sleep and Arya has gone off in search of some food for the five of them.

"Bran."

He must sound suitably grim, for Bran's smile disappears in an instant, replaced with an expression of careful consideration.

"You're our father's legitimate heir," Jon says. "By all rights, the crown should be yours."

Beside him, Sansa has gone still. She watches Bran carefully.

"I don't want it," Bran says. "You can keep it."

"It's not that simple," Jon tries to explain. "Father's bannermen followed me because they thought you... That you wouldn't come back. But now that you have, they might want you to rule."

"I'll tell them I don't want to," Bran says. "I'll stay here, though, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind!" Jon exclaims. "I want you here. All of us... I want all of us to stay here."

"Well. I suppose this is for the best," Sansa says. "If we don't have to worry about which one of you should rule, we can focus on the Dragon Queen."

"I should probably talk to her," Jon sighs. "Not that I don't want to spend the rest of the day here. But I can only hide for so long." He rises, wincing as every single one of his muscles screams in protest. "I'll try to come back later. Save me some of Arya's food, whatever she's managed to haul."

As he makes to leave, Sansa stops him with a hand on his wrist.

"Be careful," she says. "Be careful with what you say. Do you want me to be there?"

"Always," Jon smiles. "But it might be better if I do this alone."

He doesn't repeat what has been relayed to him - that Daenerys doesn't trust Sansa, that she sees in her a force to be reckoned with, and a potential rival, rather than an ally.

"I'll see you soon," he says. He leans down briefly, and kisses the back of her hand.

 

 

He doesn't have to go very far in search of Daenerys.

First he finds the dragons, in the courtyard where he'd slain the Night's King. Drogon is gnawing away at something that looks suspiciously like the carcass of a horse and Viserion is sleeping, with its head stuffed under one of its wings.

Jon has seen them in action often enough by now, dismembering wights and dousing them in ruthless fire, so he knows not to stride into the courtyard unannounced. He hovers on the doorstep until he's sure that Drogon has seen him, and even then, he doesn't walk straight across, but takes the long way round.

"King Snow!"

He stops in his tracks as Daenerys steps out from the shadows. She's no longer wearing armour, but a dark blue dress under a cloak lined with silver fur.  
At first, he'd thought the title was a jest. A refusal, maybe, to address him by the name of Stark, and a means of showing that in her opinion, he wasn't a legitimate contender to the throne. But in time he's come to change his mind. Daenerys doesn't dislike him, and to some extent, they even trust each other. It's a feeling that grew as they devised battle strategies and shared them with their advisors. It strengthened on the battlefield, as night after night they looked out for each other. She would swoop down and take out the wights that surrounded him, and he would appear after she'd been knocked off Drogon's back, striking down the White Walker that prepared to drive a spear through her heart.

And if he'd still had any misgivings after that, they'd have disappeared the previous night, when he ran up to her with little care for the foes who stood in his way, desperate to find a way to act upon Bran's warning and save his siblings in Winterfell.

_Climb_ , she'd said, and suddenly, impossibly, Viserion leaned down, offering his back.

In her "King Snow", he doesn't hear disdain, or a warning. There's affection there, and amusement, and maybe the hope for a more lasting bond.

"I didn't get a chance to congratulate you," she says. "It must have taken a mighty blow."

"I couldn't have done it without your help. You got me here, and from what I've heard, you purged the rest of the castle."

"That was Drogon, not me."

Upon hearing its name, the dragon lifts its head, temporarily abandoning the bloody carcass. But it soon decides that the situation isn't worthy of its attention, and returns to its meal. Daenerys looks on as it tears apart the legs of the horse, with a smile of motherly pride.

"Is it over, then?" Jon asks. Apart from the crunching sound of sharp teeth breaking bone, he can hear an echo of the festivities going on in the rest of the castle, laughter and music and drunken revelries.

"I would like to think so," Daenerys says. "I suppose you're not just talking about the war."

Jon sighs. "I have no intention to fight you."

Daenerys lets out a surprised peel of laughter. "You're very direct. I appreciate that. I'd rather not fight you, either."

"You can stay here as long as you wish," Jon says. "Your Grace," he adds, though Daenerys immediately waves off the title.

"There's no need to trouble ourselves with propriety. It's only the two of us, after all." She glances back towards the dragons. "Or the four of us, I suppose. I thank you for your hospitality, King Snow. But we won't overstay our welcome. I trust my Hand, but I can't let him rule my kingdom forever. Before I go, however, there is a subject that I wish to discuss."

She seems to search for words. Jon keeps quiet, and waits. _Be careful with what you say_. He thinks of Ghost, whom he's left behind in Bran's room, and who by now must be curled up at Sansa's feet. Jon might be prone to reckless outbursts now and then, but the direwolf has taught him that silence can be safer and far more intimidating than words.

"Viserion likes you," Daenerys remarks. "And he trusts you. He's never let anyone ride him before. I would like to trust you, too."

"I won't betray you," Jon says, because she seems to be waiting for some kind of response.

"Do you know what happened to Rhaegal?" she asks. "My third dragon. Of the three, he had the brightest scales. Emerald green."

"We heard that you had a third dragon," Jon says. "Not what happened to him."

"He died."

Again Drogon looks up from his food, as if something in Daenerys's tone had given him pause. Slowly he releases a thin plume of smoke, and a sound rises from deep inside his throat, like the distant screeching of rusty hinges. Jon is acutely aware of the absence of his sword, or of any means of protection besides the slender silhouette of the Dragon Queen, who stands her ground and clicks her tongue. When that fails, she steps towards the dragon and cries out an order in High Valyrian. Drogon finally lowers his head, though he never quite stops growling, and the diminished sound is enough to make the ground tremble.

"It was Euron Greyjoy," Daenerys says. "I am told he had sailed to the ruins of Old Valyria, and that he brought back a species of dark magic that allowed him to bind dragons to his will. Rhaegal turned against me." She shakes her head. "I've lost enough by now that I know how to regroup after a failure. How to mend. My dragon is dead, but Greyjoy is dead, too, in spite of his cruel tricks. In the future, I will be weary of those that my dragons choose to trust. Even when they're not madmen. Even when they are brave, and honourable... and handsome, too," she adds with a smile.

Jon clears his throat. He wonders if he should return the compliment, or maybe offer condolences for the loss of the dragon. He's never been particularly good at finding the right tone for a conversation. He's never had much talent with compliments, either.

"I see that you're confused, King Snow. Let me be clear. I have a proposition for you. And I will leave when you've made your choice, whatever that choice may be. I agree with you that the war is over - that it should be over. This country must be reunited. Then and only then can we hope for a lasting peace. This is my proposal to you: you may swear allegiance to me, abandon your crown and acknowledge my authority as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms... Or, you could marry me."

He should have expected this. Sansa had warned him it would happen. And yet when Daenerys finishes speaking, he stammers something that sounds more like the strangled cry of a drowning man than any word in the Common Tongue.

"Of course, you could remain in Winterfell," Daenerys says. "I should prefer it, in fact. This would ensure that the North is properly governed. I would however, expect yearly visits." She raises her eyebrows. "Have I given you sufficient time to recover, King Snow? Does this proposal come as such a surprise?"

"I... Thank you, your Grace," Jon says. "I should need time to think about... About your offers. Both of them."

Daenerys doesn't snort - that would be below her - but she can't quite refrain a short huff of suppressed laughter.

"Words elude you, I see. Take a day or two to think about it, then. But as welcoming as you've been, I wish to make my way south as soon as possible. I'd appreciate a swift answer."

"Of course."

Jon knows he's merely buying time. After all, he's already made up his mind. For he has no desire to rule over Westeros, and no desire to marry her. But he's quite conscious of all the trouble that this decision will cause. The bannermen won't take too kindly to him swearing allegiance to Daenerys. Sansa probably won't, either.

And the last time a son of Ned Stark had refused a political match in order to follow his heart, he'd fallen hard, and he'd damn near taken the North down with him.

 

 

Having left the queen and her dragons behind, Jon resolves to find one of his advisors. Davos would be best, though he'll make do with Lyanna Mormont or even Tormund. He's keenly aware that any opinion will be wiser than his own. And he finds his thoughts returning to Ygritte, to the fond mockery of the oft- repeated quip. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

"Your Grace."

Standing by the door leading to the main yard, Howland Reed seems to be waiting for someone. Though Jon wants nothing more than to hurry on, he  
takes the time to salute the man, and assure him, as he had assured Daenerys, that the Crannogmen are welcome to stay as long as they wish.

"I'm grateful for your hospitality," Reed says, in his slow, measured tones. "But we won't stay long. It wouldn't do to deplete your stores, not in the heart of winter. We'll return to the Reach in a few days' time - as soon as I can be sure that my daughter is out of danger. She seems set on remaining here, though I'd understand if you'd rather she left with us."

"Your daughter is welcome to stay," Jon says. "She's as good as one of us now anyways."

"Then I must thank you again, your Grace." Reed's stern face softens a little, his mouth relaxing into an approximation of a smile. "You're a true Stark, there's no doubt about that. I saw it on the battlefield and I see it now. Ned raised you well."

"Thank you," Jon says, flustered. It's due in part to the compliment, and in part to a nasty surge of guilt at the thought of his father. If Ned was still alive, there's no doubt he'd be having his head for the way he's been acting around Sansa.

"I've debated whether or not to bring up the subject," Reed says. "But am I right in suspecting that Daenerys Targaryen has made you an offer of marriage?"  
Jon stares at him, too startled to realize that his surprise will serve as confirmation.

"I swore to Ned Stark that I would never repeat what I am about to tell you," Reed goes on. "But I made such an oath because he told me he'd speak to you, when the time came. For a time during the war, I thought that he had." He takes another look at Jon's confused face. "But I can see now that he didn't get the chance."

"I've no idea what this is about," Jon says.

That's not exactly true. There's only one secret that comes to mind where his father is concerned. He just can't bring himself to hope that this is it, that the time has finally come. At last, someone will tell him about his mother.

Reed looks behind Jon at the sound of approaching voices. It's a group of revellers, the lot of them uproariously drunk. Some of them howl as they go by, others chant "White Wolf! White Wolf!" all the way to the yard, where they disappear into a blurry landscape of whirling snow and shifting flames. The door slams shut behind them.

"Is there anywhere we can talk?" Reed asks.

Jon takes him across the yard, and towards an area of the castle that he expects will be deserted. As they ascend the winding staircase of the Library Tower, he glances down at the castle below and at the bright commotion of noise and light. Then he looks up, searching among the neighbouring towers for the bright window of Bran's bedroom. There, Bran, Arya and Sansa must be having a celebration of their own.

"Well, here we are," he says at last, pushing open the door to the library. "We shouldn't be disturbed."

There's a fire burning in the hearth, but the room is empty. The smell of the place is a waft from the past - old books and wet ink and the faintest remnant of one of Maester Luwin's herbal remedies. Jon had spent many an afternoon between these walls, trying to learn his letters, copying whatever Robb was writing, although Robb's spelling was hardly any better than his own.

Howland Reed elects to stand at some distance from the fireplace, far from the light. He rests a hand against a dusty bookshelf, as if to counter the stiffness of his posture.

"Twenty one years ago," he says, "I went with your father to the Red Mountains of Dorne. We went to rescue..."

"My aunt Lyanna," Jon finishes for him.

"Your mother, Lyanna," Reed corrects, gently.

Jon remains silent. Then he takes a step to the side, and another, until he reaches the bench where he'd sit with Robb and Theon to receive Maester Luwin's teachings. He sits down wearily.

Reed is looking at him with compassion, perhaps pity.

"Ned meant to tell you himself," he says. "He said he'd wait until you were old enough to understand what the truth entailed."

When the initial, debilitating shock subsides, Jon's first instinct is to doubt Reed's words. But Reed's friendship with his father - with his uncle - is a well- known fact, perpetuated by years and years of promises overheard and never quite carried out. A letter reminding the Starks that they were welcome at Greywater Watch. Ned saying he thought he might pay a visit to his old friend. Reed sending his good wishes to the family on the occasion of Rickon's birth. He might one day travel north, he wrote, and see the youngest Stark for himself. And though none of the Stark children had ever seen Reed in the flesh, they heard about him often enough that they came to picture him as a shorter and slightly less imposing version of their father.

But if Reed is telling the truth...

"She was abducted by Rhaegar Targaryen," Jon says. "Abducted and raped by Rhaegar Targaryen."

There is a statue of Lyanna in the crypts of Winterfell, but for the life of him, Jon can't remember what it looks like. Yet this statue is the only tangible proof of her existence. He's never really thought of her as a person - as he grew up, her name was rarely mentioned around the castle, and always with a tone of wistful regret. She was a ghost and a paragon of perfection. The victim of a madman, and the cause of a war.

Reed finally steps away from the bookshelf and comes to join Jon by the old writing desk. He waits before sitting down, as if he needed Jon's approval. Jon wonders if he's doing it out of courtesy for his title, or if he's trying to give him some privacy to deal with his distress. He nods and Reed takes a seat, with his shoulders drawn in and his hands hanging between his knees. He mustn't be any older than Ned would have been if he'd still been alive, but he _looks_ older. Old and weary and immeasurably sad.

"She went willingly," Reed says. "Rhaegar didn't abduct her."

"So you're saying I'm not Ned Stark's bastard," Jon says slowly. "I'm Rhaegar Targaryen's."

It seems a cruel twist of fate that despite his various changes in station and the fact that Ned Stark lied to him about both his parents, he should still end up right where he started, with this word of "bastard" as the sole constant in his life.

"If you'd allow me to advise you, your Grace," Reed says. He hasn't picked up on Jon's remark. He doesn't seem like the sort of man who would offer words of comfort, anyways, though his hand hovers for a moment above the bench, as if he meant to pat Jon's knee. "I would keep this to myself. Robert Baratheon might be dead, but the Targaryens still have enemies, and the Queen herself might not take too kindly to a bastard nephew."

"I wouldn't challenge her," Jon says with a dispirited smile. "What does she have to fear from me? I'm just a bastard."

"And now everyone knows that a bastard can be crowned, King Snow. If you wanted to, and you played your cards right, you could claim both the North and the South. But something tells me that's not what you'll do. Whoever your parents were, you've been raised a Stark, and that's the only thing that'll inform your decision."

"My decision," Jon repeats, thinking of Daenerys's proposal, and of how it had all the makings of a political treaty. He thinks of his parents, whose infatuation caused the death of thousands. And for the second time this evening, he finds himself thinking of Robb, whose own elopement had dramatic consequences.

"I'm not trying to discourage you from marrying her, your Grace," Reed says. "But I thought you deserved to make that choice with full knowledge of the facts."

"Does anyone else know?"

Reed shakes his head, then seems to hesitate. "There were two handmaids in the tower with Lyanna. But according to Ned, they were deeply loyal to her." 

"Let us hope he was right," Jon murmurs. "You've kept this secret for twenty years. Can I ask you to keep it a while longer?"

"I'll take it to my grave if that's what you wish," Reed says. "And for what it's worth... I think you're making the right decision. And they would be proud of you - the both of them. Eddard and Lyanna."

The best that Jon can manage at this point is an extremely pained smile.

He longs for the sense of security that he'd felt, all too briefly, in Bran's room. But for all that he'd like to spend more time with Bran and Arya, someone is bound to come looking for him. And he can't allow that, not at present. First he needs to sort out his thoughts. Unfortunately, Howland Reed's revelations mean that he can't even seek out Davos or Tormund and get them to make a decision for him. This is a secret that he mustn't share, not unless he wants to risk it coming out at some point or other. And if he has any say in the matter, it will stay buried.

The irony of the situation isn't lost on him. A few months ago he was a bastard in search of a name, and now he's being given the names of the two most powerful houses in the realm. And it feels like a death sentence, rather than a consecration.

He follows an impulse and heads towards the crypts. There he won't be disturbed - and he might look upon Lyanna's statue. He feels guilty for not remembering what she looks like. Of course he's been down to the crypts before, guided by Maester Luwin or over the course of some game with his - siblings - _cousins_? But he'd been more interested in the tombs of the old kings back then, with their stern faces and the longswords across their laps.

He's halfway down a flight of sunken stairs when he hears an unexpected sound. Voices. Faraway but almost audible, echoing across the vaulted crypts below. Suddenly, he's reminded of the last time he visited the crypts.

It wasn't years ago, as he'd first thought. No, he'd come here in a dream - and in many reiterations of that same dream.

In the dream, he is looking for something, delving deeper and deeper into the shadowed rooms, until the thick runny candles are all but gone, and there's only the dripping sound of water and the occasional scurrying. After a time, even these sounds disappear, and what little light is left, and the emptiness begins to prey on him - as if the darkness were alive, velvet-soft and immeasurably hungry. He always wakes up before he can make up his mind to go back, or before he can step further into a room where the dark will force him to grope his way forwards.

But the voices that he now hears aren't coming from the far edge of the crypts, from these long-forgotten rooms where no one has set foot in centuries. As he nears the next landing of the narrow stair, he begins to make out words, and then he recognizes the speakers.

"I find it hard to believe," Sansa says.

"Of course I was worried," Petyr Baelish replies. "Most of the knights spent the night roaming the castle in search of you. And when I saw you covered in blood..."

"It wasn't my blood. I did get a few cuts and bruises, but... Most of it was Meera's. She nearly died."

"So I've heard. And you could have died, too. I, for one, am rather glad that this war is over."

"You think I'm not?" Sansa is moving as she speaks, wandering among the tombs, maybe. Her voice grows steadily louder as she comes closer to the staircase.

"Well, the castle will empty itself soon enough," Petyr muses. "And then what excuse will you have to share a room with our beloved King?"

"I'm relieved to see your innuendos managed to escape the White Walkers along with the rest of you. Bran thinks they came through the crypts, by the way. Maybe you should have chosen another meeting place."

"Every wall in this castle is porous, Sansa, no matter how sturdy they may seem. We're less likely to be disturbed down here. And we need to discuss our options, now that the war is over."

"I know," Sansa says, her voice coming from right around the corner. Her shadow stretches across the landing. Jon could retreat - he'd only have to climb a few steps to disappear from view.

But he remains where he is, so that when Sansa comes into view, she sees him immediately, standing there silent and sullen, a few steps above her.  
Sansa smiles, but he doesn't miss the subtle movement of her hand, and behind her Littlefinger stops speaking mid-sentence.

"You can't be sure that he'll..."

"Were you looking for me?" Sansa whispers, so that only Jon will hear.

_Are you playing us both_ , he wants to ask. She reaches out and he grabs her hand, trying not to show how much this simple touch affects him. A wolf robbed of its fangs and claws as the carrion bird is draws near.

"Your Grace," Baelish says, appearing beside Sansa. Jon feels a sudden urge to scrape his skin of all the oil in that unctuous smile.

Sansa pulls on his hand, and he descends the last few steps to come to stand, obediently, at her side.

"I suppose you came to pay your respects," Baelish says, bowing his head. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your moment of contemplation... Goodnight to you both."

Once he's gone, Jon lets Sansa draw him further into the crypts. They pass Lyanna's statue along the way, and Jon's first thought is that she looks so _small_. A girl rather than a woman, though a Stark wolf all the same, lean of build and with a proud bearing. He must be older than she was when she died. And now that he's heard Reed's tale, he has to wonder what caused her death. If it wasn't Rhaegar, it falls to reason that she must have died during childbirth.

Sansa can't have known what's going on in his head; yet she stops and turns, and gives him an encouraging smile. He's struck anew by her beauty, by the way the candles set her hair aflame as the cold of the crypts reddens her cheeks. For all her Tully graces, there's an icy stealth in her clear eyes that reminds him of the wilderness beyond the Wall.

"You look as if you were going to say something terrible," she says, a moment before he realizes that she's right, and that she won't like what he has to say.

"I'm going to swear allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen," he says. "I won't start another war."

Sansa frowns. "She could grant us our independence," she says. "You defeated the Night's King for her."

"I don't think she sees it that way. As far as she's concerned, she did us a favour, coming up north with her dragons."

"Are you taking her side?"

For a moment, he considers telling her what Reed has told him. But it seems it would only make things worse. He would become a usurper in her eyes, a dragon first and foremost. And while a union between them would become possible, it would still be frowned upon. No, he must keep quiet, and they must put an end to this intoxicating folly of theirs, if only for Bran and Arya's sakes.

"I'm not taking anyone's side," he says. "But I've told you once that I was done fighting, and you wouldn't listen. I'm done, now. She can be my queen if that's her wish. She'll probably be a good ruler, too. But don't you send me after her like you'd... like you'd let loose a hound. And just because Baelish promised you a crown."

"This isn't about _me_ ," Sansa protests. "The North doesn't want another southern ruler. We deserve to govern ourselves. You can't just bend the knee."

"Sansa, wake up!" he exclaims. "We've got to make it through the winter. We can't go on fighting - we can't go on..."

Words fail him, but his meaning isn't lost on her. This, at last, is when she lets go of his hand. All of a sudden, he becomes aware of every draft of cold air  
between them - of every inch of forlorn space.

"What was I, then?" she says coldly. "A wartime distraction?"

"Of course not," he sighs. "I love you, and you know it. More than I damn well should."

"Then _act like it_!" she cries, waving the confession away as if indeed, she'd known, and the words alone have no weight at all. "Be the king I need you to be!"

"I didn't ask for it," he says through gritted teeth. He would defuse the situation if he could. At the same time, the strain of the past few months has taken its toll, and he's a taunt away from shouting in her face.

"You did ask for it," Sansa counters. She's looking down her nose at him with an air that's eerily reminiscent of her mother. It gives him the disagreeable impression of being a child again. "You wanted to be a Stark, didn't you?"

They stare at each other, slightly taken aback by the depth of their respective anger. Again, Jon is torn between the temptation to yield and a pernicious desire to urge her on - to let the situation slip out of control, until his scruples desert him and he can kiss her and silence both their vindictive voices.  
In the end, it's the bitterness that wins, silencing both his desires and his fears.

"Tell Baelish to get you your fucking crown."

He stomps off, though he has no idea where he's headed.

It takes his walking away to realize that since the beginning of the war, he's only ever had one focal point, and that he's just left it behind.


	6. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Seven hells!" Jon swears, and shakes his head. "This has got to stop. It's a kiss and then it's a war, and you know if you spoke long enough and low enough I'd do it. And I'd be... It would end badly, for all of us. It's not who I am - it's not who I want to be."

"I'm not altogether sure that this is a good idea", Brienne says, for what must be the hundredth time. She should be climbing upon her horse, but she's been dallying for so long that Sansa is surprised summer didn't return in the meantime.

"You do want to see him?" she says. The previous time, she'd tried a different tactic, but it might be that utter frankness is what Brienne needs at this point.

"I am not going to Casterly Rock to visit Ser Jaime," Brienne declares. She has the gall to look offended. "This is a matter of diplomacy."

"Really," Sansa says, eyebrows raised. "I suppose that's why you allowed him to come along. After all, he's well known for his diplomatic abilities."

The both of them glance to the side, where Tormund is busy adding several pounds of dry meat to his saddlebags.

"He _insisted_ ," Brienne says.

Sansa smiles, in spite of herself. She hasn't had much occasion to be joyful in the past few days. And she hasn't been sleeping well. She keeps thinking back to the night after the battle, to the false quiet of it. Jon had slept so peacefully, the beating of his heart a steady drum against her cheek.

"Enjoy your time at Casterly Rock," she says. "My greetings to Ser Jaime."

The phrase is perfunctory. Brienne carries a letter from Jon to Jaime Lannister, which Sansa has all but dictated. It wouldn't do to alienate what few powers in the realm are not entirely beholden to Daenerys. Though Jaime Lannister has declared his loyalty to the Queen, Sansa knows from Petyr that the oath was carefully worded. If Jaime Lannister has any loyalty at this point, it is to his brother Tyrion - and if the Lannister armies still answer to anyone, it is to Jaime.

Though her and Jon have been at odds as of late, he'd readily agreed to write a courteous message in order to reinstate the peace between the Starks and the Lannisters.

Brienne's face contorts into a grimace that could be a sneer or a very poor attempt at a smile. Sansa glances back to find Tormund grinning at them both as he pats the rump of his horse.

"Nothing like a good journey to know what a man is made of," he says. "A good journey, or a good war."

"I know what you're made of," Brienne mutters, like it's an insult. Tormund's grin widens.

"You'd leave without saying goodbye?"

Jon strides across the frozen courtyard. He's not even within reach that Tormund opens his arms, and they come together in an odd embrace, good- natured at first but that soon turns into something more desperate, where Jon is clinging on for dear life and Tormund is muttering something in his ear. Sansa can't hear what he says, but it looks more like the parting words of a lover than those of a friend. Then again, she's beginning to suspect that for most people, to respect Jon is to love him unconditionally.

Jon steps back, coming to stand beside her. Sansa is careful to school her features into an expression of ice-cold disdain. Jon rolls his eyes, which she takes as a sign that he's been spending far too much time with Arya.

"I need a word with you," he says, low enough that only she will hear. "I'm seeing Lord Glover tonight. I could use your advice."

Jon has spent the past few days trying to see each and every one of his bannermen in private, the better to try and evaluate where they would stand should he declare his allegiance to Daenerys. It's a dangerous game to be playing, trying to gauge whom will side with his idea, or who can be persuaded, and at what price. He's been relying on Davos for advice, and occasionally on Sansa, when he dares to ask.

So far, he hasn't dared broach the subject with Lyanna Mormont, a fact that fills Sansa with a sinister joy.

"As long as it's just a word," she says. "I have to oversee the distribution of rations to your soldiers, and you know they won't wait. They're getting rowdier by the day."

"They'll be able to go home soon," Jon says, as Tormund and Brienne climb onto their horses.

"The living ones," Sansa remarks. "We have to find a solution for those of them who have returned from the dead."

"Lady Brienne!"

Sansa takes a careful exhale with her eyes closed, vainly trying to collect herself. Daenerys is on her way towards them, dressed in one of the regal dresses that she seems to have obtained overnight. This one is steel-grey, with a collar of red fox-fur that shields her neck and shoulders from the biting winds.

As the Queen exchanges a few words with Brienne and Tormund, wishing them a safe journey, Sansa prepares herself for the inevitable moment when Daenerys will turn around and address her.

Both of them have ceased to pretend that they are on the same side. Being adept diplomats, all of their conversations have been underscored by pleasant smiles. But beneath the courteousness, every exchange is a pit planted with the deadly spikes of barely-concealed ill-wishes and threats.

The previous day, Daenerys had invited Jon to a hunt, and Sansa had to watch as the both of them flew away on the dragons' backs, while she tried to convince the many soldiers who'd been stabbed with dragonglass that they hadn't outlived their usefulness, and that their strange half-state didn't mean that they couldn't be an integral part of the realm. When Daenerys and Jon had returned, the Queen had taken place beside them at the Lord's table, and shared their meal while relating the story of a city beyond the Narrow Sea. And Sansa felt Petyr's eyes on her, as she watched Jon and Jon watched Daenerys, in a careful, well-orchestrated play, where no one's eyes would stray from their object, not even for a second. The food was tasteless, and the Queen's story was little more than a string of words that Sansa could never quite gather into a cohesive whole. She was far too entranced by the few flakes of snow that still dotted Jon's hair. Oh, but to run her fingers through the dampened curls. A way of saying, _You cannot have him. He's mine -- he wants to be mine_.

But there is a crown and a throne and the threat of a separation between them, embodied by Daenerys with her silvery grace and her terrifying children. So as they sat across from the leaders of the northern and southern armies, Sansa kept to herself and was extremely cautious not to let her jealousy show.

"You will be sorry to lose such faithful servants, I'm sure," Daenerys says. Behind her, Brienne and Tormund are finally leaving, albeit at a leisurely pace, and with Brienne steering her horse off-course in an attempt not to ride too close to her companion.

"Brienne has pledged herself to me," Sansa says, a little testily. "I wouldn't say that I'm losing her. She'll come back."

"One of my... most valuable advisors left me several months ago, to set off on a journey. I wish I had your faith that he'd return safe and sound," Daenerys says.

"Faith won't bring him back," Jon says, his voice barely audible. "There's only trust."

"Neither," Sansa counters. "Faith is a lie. Trust is weakness."

"And here I thought the three of us trusted each other," Daenerys notes with a fleeting smile.

The safest thing would be for Sansa to retract her words, or for one of them to bury them under vain promises. But no one dares to do so, not even Jon, who stands staring at the open gate as if he wished the wind would rush in and carry him off.

"I will see you both at dinner?", the Queen asks.

They part civilly enough, but the unresolved conversation seems to cling to them as they leave. It's impossible not to see it as a sign of troubles to come.

Sansa follows Jon to the Library Tower, ostensibly to discuss the matter of Lord Glover.

She's bracing herself for an hour of rhetoric, of averted glances (hers) and wounded looks (Jon's), of otherwise innocuous sentences that take an added meaning in the context of their dispute. _You're so much like your mother_ , he'd said the night before, words that in any other mouth might have been a compliment. He'd been trying to ask for help with his letter to Jaime Lannister. At first she had even refused to answer his summons. And when she'd relented, after Jon sent Davos to fetch her, it was mostly to have the savage pleasure of saying, as she entered the room, "You _demanded_ my help, your Grace?"

The rational part of her, the one that always plots and schemes, is well aware that she'll gain nothing by behaving like this. But it's a myriad details pelting her like hail. An exchange of smiles, the distant echo of Jon's unfamiliar laughter. These "diplomatic" hunts with the dragons. Jon offering his arm to Daenerys in the yard, and Daenerys tucking her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. Sansa had sensed a wealth of words behind these brief interactions, conversations that she hadn't been privy to and promises made behind her back.

She knows that her jealousy is a luxury, perhaps even a consequence of this unsteady peace. She needs something to hold onto, and if she can't hold onto him, she'll try to preserve her anger. Anything but silence. She refuses to pretend that the war hasn't thrown them against each other, as surely as if an arrow had passed through them both.

Jon closes the door of the library, and they find themselves shut together among the hundreds of smelly old books, with the frosty windows letting in shafts of cold blue light.

"Thank you," Sansa says, "for imposing this awkward courtship upon me. The least you could do is keep it behind closed..."

Jon moves in, and she loses her words. She couldn't say what does it, exactly - the fact that his first instinct to silence her would be a kiss, or the way he stops a moment away from her lips, as if, even in the middle of a dispute, he needed to ask for permission.

"Well, go on, then," she whispers.

Jon kisses her like he's stealing something, with haste and a guilty mind. It's as good as hearing him say, _I want this, I want you, but I might as well be sticking a sword through my chest_. When it's over, he reaches up to unclasp her arms, and gently pushes her away from him.

"Lord Glover," he reminds her, his voice hoarse.

"He won't want to fight another war," she says.

Jon is still holding her arms and refusing to pay attention to that fact. It reminds her of the day they'd spent in Bran's room, with his hands leaving a burning imprint upon her ankles. How sweet that homecoming had been, sweet enough, maybe, to make up for the harsh days that followed.

"If you talk to him alone he might admit to it," she goes on. "He'll be more aggressive if you discuss this with all the bannermen at once - he'll want to make it seem like he's not balking at the idea of going back to war. He could threaten you for the sake of it. But he's probably on your side."

"Thank you," Jon says, stepping back. "I'll have him called in. I'll try to join you later - to discuss the cold men."

He pronounces the name with some hesitation. They have yet to find a better way to designate the half-dead troops, but in the meantime, it had seemed better than "wights". The cold men fought on the side of the living, after all, and it would be in poor taste to give them the name of those that they helped to defeat.

"If you find the time," Sansa says. _What with all the dragon-riding and your secret encounters to try and rally the lords to your lost cause_. "Let's discuss this later, yes. But I was thinking we could house them in the winter town. Of course the villagers are scared of them, and it probably wouldn't take long before someone decided to torch their houses... I wish we could take them in, it would make things easier. People would see that there's nothing to fear. I tried to ask one of the remaining priestesses how to get them past the wards, but she wasn't of much help." _Or of any help, for that matter_ , she thinks, remembering the soft voice like silk gliding on skin as the woman spoke of death and darkness. "I've asked Bran and Maester Torren to look into it, but in the meantime, if you could write to your friend at the Citadel... What is it?" she frowns, for Jon is smiling, warm and forgetful.

"I guess we're not saving this discussion for later," he says.

"You'll write to Sam, then?"

"Yes, I'll write to Sam," Jon agrees. "But we'll have to find a solution in the meantime. We can't just leave these men out in the open, even if they're impervious to the cold."

"Perhaps... If they couldn't be hurt," Sansa says. "If you made it a punishable offence. This would make it easier for those who want to go home... Wouldn't it be better than to force them all to live in the same place, when all they have in common is this strange state that was forced upon them?"

"This sounds like a good idea," Jon sighs. "I'll discuss it with Daenerys." 

Sansa takes a careful breath. "She listens to you," she says.

She'd touch him if she dared, but it would probably startle him. He'd never believe it to be an absent-minded gesture, and to some extent, he'd be right. She cannot - she _won't_ be absent-minded. If this is the only way that he's found to extort some measure of happiness from his life, this half-wakeful state where he can allow himself to touch her without being submerged with guilt... She won't grant him the relief of following his example.

"She'll hear me out," Jon says. "It doesn't mean she'll agree to it. We'll see."

"She would hear you out if you voiced other concerns, then, wouldn't she," Sansa ventures.

"What concerns?"

"Must you swear allegiance to her without first asking about our independence? No, hear me out," she protests, when Jon opens his mouth to argue. "I heard she was going to grant their independence to the Ironborn, as long as they agreed to a few conditions..."

"It's different," Jon interrupts. He takes a few steps towards the fireplace and leans against it, staring down at the flames. He doesn't sound as angry as he'd been in the crypts, but she's wary of the tense set of his shoulders, and of his reluctance to speak with her eye to eye. "We're talking about a handful of islands. I'd be asking her to part with half of her kingdom..."

"It's not her kingdom," Sansa says, trying to keep her voice level. "Her claim to it is no better than yours."

Somehow he goes even tenser at that, his knuckles stark white against the stone slab of the mantelpiece. "What do you mean?" There's a hollow echo to his voice, too. She might not have noticed it if it weren't so hauntingly familiar. How often has she used that same tone, in a desperate attempt to try and mask an underlying fear? Hundreds of times, it seems, over the last few years.

"I only mean that you act as though she's the rightful ruler, and you have to bow before her. But you don't. What better claim does she have to the North than a Stark? Show me one Northerner who'll gladly welcome a Targaryen ruler. She's not stupid. The only reason she's asking you to swear allegiance is because she _knows_ she has a chance to convince you. She probably thinks that you'll convince the North in turn, and then she'll get the North without a fight, just because she's trapped you into thinking that you couldn't just ask for the North, and get it. She'd have to give it to you, if you asked."

"She won't give up the North," Jon says. "What next? The independence of the Vale? The independence of the Reach, or of Dorne?"

"Why won't you even _ask_!" she exclaims, feeling her restraint slip away from her again, as if she were skidding down an icy slope. "I'm not asking you to declare war on her, though if it came to this, I'd support you. But we can't just kneel before a Targaryen ruler again. Father wouldn't have. Do you remember what they did? What her father did to our grandfather, and our uncle. What her brother did to our aunt."

"Daenerys was a child," Jon says, still refusing to look away from the flames. "You can't blame her for the woes of our family."

"We have a chance to do things differently this time," Sansa pleads. She comes to join him by the fire. "If you're afraid of ruling... You shouldn't be. I would help you." She places a careful hand atop his on the mantelpiece. "Why do you fight me?" she whispers, her lips close to his ear, threading their fingers together. "We could be the greatest rulers the North has ever known. What good has it done us to let ourselves be governed, to let ourselves be trampled? We weren't meant to submit, to advise or to follow. Look at what happened to father, and to father's father. The only way we'll survive... The only way we'll thrive, is if we make our own rules."

Jon turns towards her. He looks slightly dazed. The fire gives his eyes a feverish gleam, which she knows must be reflected in her own. Yet she's never felt so calm, so sure of herself. He'll give in, he must. What a future they could build! And what sweeter victory could there be, besides, than to sway this man who refuses so obstinately to be swayed?

"Kiss me," she whispers, because she can't quite say, _if you must swear allegiance, swear allegiance to me._

Jon obeys her demand, but while this kiss has none of the hasty clumsiness of the previous one, it doesn't feel like a victory. It is far too passionate to be trusted, far too tender to be a gift of strength. Instead, it robs her of her certainties. It's the cold of the forest with Ramsay's hounds upon her heels, it's the calm of the Godswood while she waits for news from the frontlines, it's every night of the war that she has longed to tear apart with frightful screams, longing for a time when she cared for nothing but vengeance - when she cared nothing for Jon Snow.

What a mistake it was, to think that she had him at her mercy. Her earlier impression was far more accurate - it's an arrow shoved through both their chests, and whenever he tries to pull away, the point skewers her heart, and whenever he comes too close, it burrows deeper. Surely, it will eventually kill them both.

And yet she holds fast to his neck and shoulders and presses her lips together to contain an undignified sound when he moves away from her mouth and buries his head in the hollow of her neck, muffling a sigh against her skin.

"Don't," she warns.

"You want something that I can't give you," he mumbles. "I can't, Sansa. And I don't want another fight."

She couldn't say which one of them is holding the other up. She hopes that it's her, that she's got that much strength left, but she can't be sure. And deep down, she suspects that if it wasn't for their respective frustrations balancing themselves out like so many anchoring weights, they'd have collapsed a long time ago.

"I don't understand you," she whispers.

"I'll gather our bannermen tonight and inform them of my decision," Jon says. It's hard not to take this as a betrayal, especially when he's whispering the words against her ear, with his stubble tickling her cheek and his hand tracing idle patterns on her back. "And we must end this," he goes on, though his voice lacks resolve. Instead of stepping back, he only draws her closer, and she grips the back of his tunic as he rocks against her, with a single, desperate jolt of the hips, more instinctive than demanding. He goes still immediately, but she tugs at his hair and finds his mouth, whispering against his lips, "again," a little breathlessly at first, and then with all the authority she can muster, "again."

She knows she shouldn't lure him on. The more she asks for, the harder it will be to forgive him when he does let go.

But in the meantime it's another kiss, and another, and Jon is golden-eyed in the light of the fire. His hands caress her face and softly stroke her breasts and under the velvet and linen of her clothes, the ice begins to thaw. Her body awakens to the throbbing of old scars, to startled fragments of fear and to the far-reaching echoes of tremors that time will never erase. But beneath it all she feels the stirrings of a less familiar ache. Deep-seated in her belly, it spreads out with every minute shift of her body. The only way to appease it is to get closer - to part her legs and let his knee slide between her thighs and relish the friction despite the layers of clothing and the abrupt stillness of his hands on her hips.

"I won't... I'm not going to change my mind," Jon mutters.

Sansa stares at him. "Do you think I'm trying to seduce you so you'll change your mind?"

"No, no, this isn't..." Jon disentangles himself, and seems to stagger as he takes a few steps back. He latches onto the mantelpiece for support. "The fault is mine," he says. "I shouldn't have..."

"It's just us," she reminds him, trying to get close once more. Already the resentment is beginning to build, that he would allow her to feel so. Like a distraught child, like a trembling animal. Desperately willing to rub herself against his legs, for the brief comfort of a distracted hand.

"Not anymore," Jon says. There's a finality to his tone that she hasn't heard since he raised his voice in the crypts. It stops her in her tracks and she resents that, too, the sudden inescapable thought of Bran and Arya, the resurgence of words that she learned from Catelyn long ago. _Family, duty, honour._

"Jon," she pleads.

"Seven hells!" Jon swears, and shakes his head. "This has got to stop. It's a kiss and then it's a war, and you know if you spoke long enough and low enough I'd do it. And I'd be... It would end badly, for all of us. It's not who I am - it's not who I want to be."

"Jon.... You're not making any sense."

He laughs ruefully. "How could I. I'm not thinking with my head right now. We won't have this talk again. I'll swear allegiance. And we... What if anyone had walked in?" He shudders. "We'll have to behave as is expected of us."

"I won't forgive you for this."

She means it as a threat, but from the look on his face, she can tell that he's relieved to hear her say it.

"Fine," he sighs. "Go on and hate me, if it makes it easier. I understand."

She can only watch as he leaves, too stunned to protest, too proud to beg. Try as she might, she can't seem to understand where she went wrong - which word, which gesture should have been avoided. And most of all, she feels decidedly stupid, for she knew all along that he'd eventually slip away, and it would have hurt far less if she'd let him do so from the start. Now she's left with more harsh words and with the ghostly memory of his touch, as if the velvet of her dress still bore the mark of his reverent hands.

 

 

She comes away from the camp with an unshakable chill, not unlike the day she'd followed Theon across the icy river. The cold spreads like sleep settling over her limbs, so that when she walks it seems to be her dress that moves. The rest of her fumbles along, still haunted by the crystal-blue eyes of the half-dead men.

She wanted to bring them comfort, but she doubts that she succeeded. They looked hopeless when she arrived, and just as hopeless by the time she left. The only thing that seemed to rouse them from their torpor was her warmth. Many hands brushed her arms as she went by, all manners of hands - long-fingered or stocky, soft-skinned as a child's or covered with coarse black hair or stained with the dark marks of old age. But all of them dreadfully cold, and tinged with blue.

She's relieved to see the forges come into view, and veers towards them like a moth drawn to a flame. Not all of the forges have been active since the war ended, but there's still enough noise and heat to jolt her awake and reinvigorate her frozen limbs. As she passes the last of the barracks, she catches a glimpse of a familiar face. Arya is standing under an awning of torn cloth, shaking the snow from her hair as she talks to one of the blacksmiths, a young man with a lean build and an easy-going grin.

One of the first things that Sansa did in the wake of the war was to recruit a septa who might look after Arya. Predictably, the experience was a failure. On most days, the septa can be found running around various areas of the castle where Arya was reportedly seen. Sansa's main command - that Arya should be made, by reason or by force, to wear a dress - has so far been ignored, both by the septa and by Arya herself.

Sansa hasn't seen much of Arya either, aside from the lengthy dinners where her younger sister always sits with Jon and Sansa is left trying to converse with Daenerys and Yara Greyjoy, who has somehow earned a place at the main table, by virtue of being Daenerys's... Second-in-command? Trusted friend? The only moments when Sansa feels something like understanding towards Yara is when the woman smiles. There's something about her sly grins that reminds her of Theon as he once was, with his reckless charm and his wayward ways.

When she sees Sansa drawing near Arya stops in the middle of a sentence - in the middle of a smile. She assumes a stubborn, stony-faced expression that Sansa knows well. It means she expects a good scolding.

"Arya," Sansa says, and tries not to stare too hard at the sludge on her sister's boots, at the singed sleeve of her tunic or at the appalling state of her hair.

"Sansa." Arya half-turns towards the blacksmith, who scrambled into a bow the moment Sansa came into view. "You don't have to _curtsey_ ," Arya tells him. And to Sansa, "That's Gendry. He's my friend."

Sansa wants to point out that his being a friend of Arya's shouldn't dispense him from bowing in the presence of the princesses of Winterfell. But he seems conscious of the fact, even if Arya isn't.

"Your Highness," he mumbles.

"You can rise," she says, and decides to ignore Arya's huff of annoyance. "I'm sure Septa Serra is looking for you, Arya."

"Please," Arya snorts. "You can't still be thinking to turn me into a lady! If I have to train, I'll train as a knight. Or as a pirate. And don't tell me I can't," she adds, before Sansa has time to interject. "Brienne's a knight and Yara Greyjoy's a pirate and you've met them both."

The blacksmith tries and fails to withhold a laugh. Sansa shoots him a withering glare.

"You should at least be accompanied when you leave the castle," she says, trying not to sound as defeated as she feels. "By a woman," she clarifies, before Arya can finish a dramatic gesture in Gendry's direction.

"I'll take Ghost, if that makes you happy," Arya says, with the victorious grin that this loophole calls for.

"You..."

Sansa stops. She had been about to say "you can't", but not because of the many rules of propriety that Arya so loves to disdain. She had been about to protest out of _jealousy_. As if they could afford such petty squabbles.

And besides, there's no use yearning for what has been lost, and she's as good as lost Jon. She might as well get used to the idea of losing Ghost, too.

"Fine," she says.

Arya had been poised on the edge of another protest. She falters.

"I want to learn how to enchant a sword," she says, after a beat.

"Don't push your luck," Sansa warns.

As she walks away from the forges, she can distinctly hear Arya tell Gendry, "I'll do what I want. She can't stop me."

She expected as much, but it still rankles. Why should Arya be able to do what she wants, while she must be reasonable, and obedient? And if she must resign herself to Jon giving up his crown, and if he will give her up as well, well, what has she got left? Apart from a lifelong dream of being queen, and the means, perhaps, to make it come true.

 

 

"Would you care to take a walk with me?" she asks.

She has been delaying this encounter for the better part of the afternoon. First she presided over a distribution of food in the overcrowded winter town, and then she'd received the widows of some of Jon's soldiers. She even spent two hours sewing in the company of the northern ladies, listening to their righteous gossip as Lyanna Mormont affected to read a book in a corner.

But now the afternoon is coming to an end. The sky is changing fast, the dusky blue above her head already fading to black where the sky meets the castle walls. Sansa and Petyr head towards the Godswood, with a knight walking ahead of them, and another following at some distance behind, ready to warn them should someone arrive. But the vigils are not so common now as they were during the war, and Sansa doubts that they'll be disturbed. It's too close to the dinner-hour, and only a fool or a schemer would prefer the dark snowy weirwood to the great fires and the bustle of the Great Hall.

"I assume you have a plan."

"A plan?" Petyr laughs. "You have a poor opinion of me, if you think I only have the one. If that was the case, I'd have been killed a long time ago."

Sansa comes to a stop beneath the heart tree, and reaches out to touch the bark. Just like Bran used to, when they huddled together within its roots as the war raged on. Bran tried to read something in the cracks and knots of the trunk, or maybe it wasn't something he felt by touch alone. Maybe the tree spoke to him, or showed him things - Sansa wouldn't know. The heart tree doesn't speak to her.

"I'm listening," she says, withdrawing her hand. There's something judgmental about the deep lines of the crying face. But the carved figure also seems to belong to a bygone era, and as such the grief of the bleeding eyes is an old grief. It can't torment her.

"It involves proving to your bannermen that you would be better-suited to rule them than your brother," he says.

"How do you propose to do that?"

"A few words, here and there," he smiles. "A steady turn of the tide. We need to show where his interests really lie."

"And where would that be?" she asks, for the answer can't possibly be "with himself". Jon has proven, time and again, that he's too selfless for his own good.

"I told you he would have to make a choice," Littlefinger says. "Between Daenerys and you. And I suppose you think that because he didn't accept her offer of marriage..."

"She made an offer of marriage?" She tries not to sound too surprised - to no avail.

"He didn't tell you?" Petyr slowly shakes his head. "Oh, Sansa. I thought you were past being manipulated. And by a boy whose ability to deceive might be inferior even to Ned Stark's."

"He declined the offer?" she says, with a mixture of pride and dismay. _Oh Jon_. She would have married Daenerys had she been in his place. But of course he wouldn't. To him, it must have seemed like the _noble_ thing to do.

"Indeed. And yet, he didn't do it for the love of you..."

Petyr comes closer, his hand gently sliding up the back of her arm. There's no ghostliness to that touch. It's elusive and yet proprietary; water gliding over a rock again and again until the hard edges have been smoothed out.

"Which makes him a fool," he whispers, his eyes gleaming like a cat's. "For what isn't there to love?"

He has become bolder of late. She suspects it might have to do with the final night of the war, during which, according to him, he'd driven himself half-mad with worry, thinking that he'd lost her. And if this were any other night, she would take a step back. His hand would fall from her arm and neither of them would say a word about it.

But Jon's confused rejection is still fresh in her mind. She used to think that if they recaptured Winterfell, and if she could be reunited with Bran and Arya, then she would be able to settle, and life would resume for them all. Her beloved siblings - her stranded pack. But they have returned and Winterfell is theirs. And still the girl in her is lonely. Still the wolf in her starves.

"He is about to betray you," Petyr says, in a cold whisper against her lips. "He has his own reasons for not marrying her, and his own reasons to want her on the throne. And he hasn't shared these with you."

"If you know something," she frowns, "you should just say it."

"He's not Ned Stark's bastard," Petyr says, his grip tightening around her arm. "He's Rhaegar Targaryen's."

"Rhaegar Targaryen's," Sansa repeats, the disbelief audible in her voice.

"You told me once that Rhaegar had abducted your aunt," Petyr says urgently. "It was a lie. One of many lies told by your father, the honourable Ned... Your aunt followed Rhaegar willingly. She gave him a son, and died soon after - in your father's presence. He promised he would raise the boy as his own."

"I don't believe you," Sansa says, though she's parsing through his words, adding and subtracting dates. She doesn't need any light to picture his expression. Patience and connivance. _We're in this together_ , his eyes would say. He gives her time to think.

If it were true, Jon would be... a prince, a bastard, a dragon. The illegitimate heir to the Targaryen dynasty.

If it is true, then Jon isn't her half-brother.

"Does he know?"

"He knows," Petyr confirms. "And he has been conspiring with Daenerys Targaryen, so that she'll rule over Westeros, and he'll guard the North for her." "How long has he known?"

There's a stubborn part of her that still refuses to believe any of it. Her father didn't have any secrets, and Petyr is a consummate liar...

... And her aunt died in mysterious circumstances, and her father did have one secret, for none of them ever found out the truth of Jon's parentage, and did not everyone agree, that it was very much unlike Ned Stark, to be unfaithful to his wife?

"He heard it from Howland Reed," Petyr says. "He's known for weeks." Gently, he kisses her cheek. "My dear Sansa. Did you think this game of yours would last? Even as it is, he won't marry you. He knows what you want, and he'll never give it to you. You frighten him. He would rather bow to the Dragon Queen than to you. You know it. They have been planning behind your back, and if we want to prevent her from taking over the North, we must act now."

"How long have you known?" Sansa asks. She's grateful that they are having this conversation in the darkness of the Godswood, where he won't be able to see her distraught expression, her clenched jaw and her glazed eyes.

"I couldn't have told you straight away... It would have..." 

"How long."

"Years," he says.

"Years!"

"I couldn't be sure at first," he explains. "It wasn't until I found one of the handmaidens who... But it doesn't matter. What use would this information have been to me, to us, until now? There was no use for me to... burden you with it."

It is difficult to penetrate his motives at the best of times, in full daylight and with her wits about her. It's near impossible now, when she still hasn't fully processed the implications of his revelation, when the same stupid thought keeps circling round and round in her head. _Jon isn't my brother, he didn't have to give up on me, and yet he did, again, and again._

Yet, no matter how distracted she is, she remains fully aware that Littlefinger has been serving his interests before hers. Of course he'd waited until she'd argued with Jon to share this information with her. Had he told her earlier, she would have tried to encourage Jon to claim the Iron Throne, and she's heard enough about Petyr's hopes and dreams to know that they don't feature Jon on the throne as he steps back into the shadows.

"You've been waiting for the moment you could use this information against him," she says. "All this time, you've been waiting for the moment you could take him down."

"As far as I'm concerned, he's taking himself down," Petyr says. His grip on her arm loosens - he knows she won't bolt. "He didn't pose much of a threat as a Stark bastard. As Jaehaerys Targaryen, however..."

"Jaehaerys," she whispers. This strange-sounding name is irreconcilable with the man she knows. It's a name fit for a prince, one of these princes that she used to dream about, tall and slender with an armour of silver and gold and a voice like the music of a running river.

But such princes don't exist. There's only warriors and schemers, callous men and foolish men, and men whose gallantry is only a means to an end.

"I told you he would betray you," Petyr murmurs. "Again and again, I warned you. Your charms may have tempted him for a time... The gods know this boy has always wanted to belong somewhere... But he's been making deals behind your back, and now he has cast you aside. You came to me. I can help you. We can take the North - we can take it tonight. No blood needs be spilled. Just say the word, and I'll arrange it."

It isn't trust that makes her waver, or the old dream of a kingdom and a crown. It's the collapse of weeks and months of an unwavering faith in Jon. This faith has carried her through a war. It has served as a rebuke against the constant stream of Petyr's whispers. But these whispers did not fall on deaf ears, and they return to plague her now, as does that moment in the wake of the battle against Ramsay's army. _We need to trust each other_ , Jon had said.

_Tell Baelish to get you your fucking crown._

"What do you intend to do?" she asks.

"They follow him because he's a Stark," Petyr says. "If a Stark tells them it's in their interest to bow to the Dragon Queen, your bannermen will bow. If the words come from a Targaryen, however... I'll confront him. He won't deny it, you'll see. He will have to step down, he'll be all too glad to do so. And then, you'll be free to negotiate with Daenerys Targaryen. You can be a queen in your own right."

He must have felt something, a fleeting hesitation perhaps, for he draws ever closer, and frames her face between his hands.

"Could you bear it?" he asks. "To see him lay the North at her feet... You'd have to obey. How entertaining would that be! Another generation of Starks falling prey to the Targaryens." His voice turns to a murmur, soft and seductive with just a hint of cruelty. "Of course, he would remain your brother. And one doesn't fuck one's brother... No, you would have to be content with watching him from a distance, begging for scraps. An affectionate embrace, a chaste, brotherly kiss... And oh the longing, it would drive you mad, in the darkness of your bedroom and every day as you watch him go by. And you'll wish him gone - you'll wish him _dead_..."

"Do it," she says. "Confront him."

And she wants to be vengeful; she wants to be strong and cold and remorseless. But she can't help a pang of worry as she closes her eyes, and lets Petyr kiss her lips.

 

 

 _What do you want?_ she wonders, as she walks up to the table at the front of the Great Hall. _I want to be a queen, a better queen than Cersei or Daenerys. I was brought up to be a queen, and it's the only thing I've ever wanted._

Then she sees Jon at the head of the table, with that sullen expression on his tired face, and she knows it's a lie. There might have been a time when she only wanted to be queen. And there might have been a time where she cared for her safety above all else, and a time when this desire was swept aside by her craving for vengeance... But all of this had changed, at some point or other, during the war and in its aftermath. And it has left her uncertain, with strange wishes and a confusion of painful yearnings.

The Dragon Queen isn't sitting by Jon's side at present, though dinner is well under way. Jon must have told her to stay away while he announced his decision to his bannermen. Most if not all of them must know by now that he'll submit to the Queen. But it's one thing to have their individual approval, and another to face them as a drunk, belligerent crowd.

Sansa finds her seat, and proceeds to stare at her plate for the next hour, trying to force some food down her throat.

"Are you alright?"

She gives Bran a tense smile. They haven't spoken much during the meal, and she sustained a vague hope that he wouldn't notice her distraction. But he's watching her intently now, and the question has also caught Jon's attention, for his eyes flicker briefly towards her, before he returns to his contemplation of the crowd.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Once again Jon glances at her; her tone was more abrupt than she would have liked.

"How's Meera?" she asks, vainly hoping to calm down the frantic beating of her heart.

"She's much better," Bran says. He looks up at the room before them and smiles. "I used to think I wouldn't see Winterfell again. But we found a way back, didn't we?"

Sansa forces a smile. "We did."

Bran considers her carefully. "You know there's always a way back," he says. 

"To Winterfell?"

"To Jon," he whispers, so that only she will hear.

Sansa stares at him in shock, but before she has time to think of an answer, Jon rises from his seat, and silence spreads unevenly across the Great Hall.  
The Crannogmen are gone, and without Daenerys and Yara Greyjoy and their men, the gathering is eerily similar to the loud crowd that once proclaimed Jon their king. Sansa catches a glimpse of Lyanna Mormont, who sits in the back with a rather put-upon expression that could signify her disapproval of Jon's decision, or simply her disapproval of the world at large. Though Tormund has gone south for the time being, some of the wildling leaders are present; there was a hearty brawl going on in the back of the room when Sansa came in, involving a broken pitcher of ale and a laughing maid. Most of the room, however, is occupied by the Stark bannermen and their retinues. This includes the nephew and heir of the deceased Lord Cerwyn, recently come to Winterfell. He can't help but stand out, fresh-faced and nervous. On the whole, it's harder to tell one house from the next than it would have been a few months ago: everyone sits together, including the wildlings and the knights of the Vale. Sansa would like to believe that the battle has brought them all closer, but she's fairly sure that this camaraderie won't last. Be they northerners or wildlings or schemers like Petyr, men cannot tolerate a prolonged peace.

"Many among you have come to ask me what our goal should be, now that the war is over," Jon says, his voice echoing across the hall. "I think it's clear that we have one goal and one goal only: to survive the winter. And that implies staying on good terms with Daenerys Targaryen."

"She's not my queen!" someone shouts from the back, perhaps one of the wildlings. Though Sansa is trying to pay attention, she finds herself distracted to the point of desperation. And meanwhile Petyr stands to one side of the room, watching her.

"Say what you will about her, she's a fierce warrior," someone else says. This statement is followed by many murmurs of agreement and a few loud barks of dissent.

"She's not her father," Jon says. "And she's not one of these Lannister rulers that you've risen against in the years since Robert Baratheon died. I've grown to know her since the war ended, and I've reason to believe she'll make a fine queen. I won't challenge her rule."

Though this declaration causes a racket, most of it has to do with Jon's professed familiarity with the queen, rather than with any protest against his decision. Jon ignores the lewd comments in favour of answering those who require to know why he won't try to marry Daenerys.

"I am in no position to negotiate with the Queen," he says. "We have lost the better part of our army in this war. Daenerys Targaryen has dragons and enough troops to flatten us if we try to rise against her. I'd rather be Warden of the North than her pet wolf in the South."

Obviously, Jon doesn't intend to share Daenerys's proposal with anyone. How could the Queen have reacted to the news of his parentage? Had she embraced this new family member? It seems likelier that she would be wary, and Sansa doesn't understand why Jon would choose to share his secret with a political rival rather than with her, no matter how muddled their ties may have become.

The crowd gathered in the hall is nowhere near as loud as she expected it to be. Though she's advised Jon regarding the tone to adopt with the various lords that he talked to over the past few days, she still thought that there would be a wave of contestation when he made his decision public. But the prolonged war remains present in the men's faces, and their senses have been dulled by several days' worth of festivities. They trust Jon, and they don't want another conflict. They have seen the dragons, and the burnt forests and the White Walkers and the cold men. Most of them want to return to their homes. They have had enough of this endless succession of kings and queens.

How does Petyr intend to change their minds, then? She darts a glance towards his side of the room, where he stands with his arms crossed, an  
unobtrusive presence in his coal-black tunic and with his curved blade of a smile. At no point during Jon's speech has he made any move to come forward.

"The priority is to rebuild what we can before the cold makes it impossible," Jon says. He can't quite hide his relief that his announcement has come and gone without any fight breaking across the hall. "We've barely got seven hours of daylight as it is, and it's only going to..."

"I have a question, your Grace."

Jon turns towards the far left, where Robett Glover has risen from his bench. His interruption was startling enough that his neighbour has dropped his cup, splattering ale all over their table. Lord Glover doesn't seem to have noticed, though. He only has eyes for Jon. While he is never anything but stern, he seems particularly grave at present, if not downright sinister.

"Yes?" Jon says, when the question fails to follow.

"Are you truly Eddard Stark's son?" Lord Glover asks. "I was told that you weren't. That your name is Jaehaerys Targaryen, and that you're Rhaegar Targaryen's son. Now, I don't mean to accuse you. You're my king and I stand by that. But I'd be justified to be wary if the rumours were true."

Disbelief, at first. Then incredulity, and full-blown outrage, though the drunken rumble of voices seems to surround and assault Lord Glover at present, and most of the assembly has yet to shift its focus to Jon.

Jon, who is standing motionless behind the table. Sansa thinks that she sees him swaying slightly, though her eyes could be deceiving her. His face is as pale as snow. She knows at once that Littlefinger has been telling the truth.

Slowly the room catches on and the lords and knights begin to rise and to protest at the top of their voices, in an incomprehensible cacophony of sound. And Jon could address them - they are still waiting for an explanation, perhaps even for a rebuttal - but instead he turns towards Sansa, gazing at her above Bran's head.

"Did you know about this?" he asks.

His wounded expression stuns her into silence.

She's distantly aware of an ongoing commotion in the hall, of the sound of chairs and benches scraping back against flagstones, of steel being drawn and of Lyanna Mormont's voice resounding loud and sharp in the midst of warring voices. On Jon's other side, Arya has pushed back her chair and rounded the table, her slender rapier held high.

Some are still clamouring for answers, but Jon doesn't seem particularly concerned with their queries, no matter how legitimate they may be. Others have begun to chant Bran or Sansa's names. Sansa isn't so distracted that she'd fail to notice how the few voices screaming her name do not sound like drunken  
slurring, but like men who have been saving their energy for this precise moment. Petyr's work, no doubt.

How quickly they have all turned against Jon, when minutes before they worshipped him like a god.

And with an uneasy start, she realizes that this doesn't merely apply to the rebellious lords, but to her own, treacherous behaviour.

"We both have what we want, then," Jon says. "You can be queen, they'll cast me aside. And kill me maybe - Arya! Don't!"

Arya has kicked one of the northerners in the back of the knee, interrupting the man in the middle of what could have been a rant or a spitting contest. Turning around, the northerner makes to bash the first object he can reach - a mutton leg - into his assailant's head. When he sees Arya, he lets out a surprised guffaw that ends in a deafening roar when one of the Free Folk barrels into his back and sends him to the ground. Arya steps aside nimbly to avoid the spinning mutton bone. The whole incident has lasted less than a handful of seconds, and it's only one among a hundred similar skirmishes happening across the hall. The knights of the Vale are in the process of incapacitating whatever drunk Northmen they can reach. Though Lord Glover started this drunken uprising, he now seems to have switched sides. Sansa sees him yell a threat in Petyr's direction before he begins to march across the room, with the obvious intent of slamming his fist or the hilt of his sword in Petyr's face. But he doesn't make it this far. One of Petyr's knights steps in front of him, wearing what looks like a full suit of armour, and he smashes a steel gauntlet into Lord Glover's cheek. Sansa couldn't be sure, but she thinks she catches a glimpse of the new Lord Cerwyn, hiding under a table.

Jon is watching the proceedings with wide eyes. His hand flexes reflexively at his side, reaching for an absent sword.

"The guest right," Sansa says, rising. "They won't hurt you - they won't dare."

"Your brother the Young Wolf must have thought the same before the Freys and Boltons invited him to the Red Wedding," Lyanna Mormont remarks, looking up at them from the other side of the table. "Your Grace might want to retreat for now. We're outnumbered. Or rather, Lord Baelish has far more sober men than we do. Give these drunken fools a night to think this through. Ser Davos will see you out, I'll have my men watch your back."

"He was telling the truth," Jon says, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a lie could still turn the tables in his favour. Then again, Petyr must have expected this - Jon's reluctance to be anything but honourable, even as he's besieged by liars and traitors.

"All the more reason to leave, now," Lyanna says, and rushes off towards a table where four of her men are holding down a host of falcon-crested knights.

"I concur. Leave and you won't be harmed."

Judging from his impeccable appearance, Petyr must have materialised from across the room. No man would look so unruffled after facing a melee.

"And what would you do to me?" Jon snarls. The dejected expression has disappeared. Petyr has the good sense to take a step back. For a brief moment, Sansa sees the sigils instead of the men. A mockingbird flapping its wings to sidestep the snapping jaws of a direwolf. She steps around Bran's chair, edging closer to Jon although she knows she shouldn't. It feels like willingly stepping into a blazing fire.

The moment he senses her approach, Jon turns towards her and snags the front of her dress, roughly tugging her to him.

"Here. Take what's yours," he says. "What does it matter now?"

It's a direwolf's kiss, warm and wet and with the lingering pain of a too-sharp bite.

"Oh, by the gods," Petyr exclaims, annoyed, and waves over a group of knights. "Lock him up, then."

"Go," Sansa says, instinct taking over. "For now. Go." She pushes him toward the door to the side of the hall, where Davos and Lyanna's men are waiting.

"Bran," Jon protests.

"No one will touch Bran," Sansa assures him, as Davos all but drags him through the door. Lyanna's men follow, and Arya, and half a dozen wildlings. Sansa flattens herself against the wall as they all go by.

Once they're gone, an uneasy silence settles across the Great Hall. And then, a chorus of voices begins to rise, knights and lords and drunk men and turncoats. _The Queen of the North_ , they shout.

"It's a good thing that I thought to have them keep out the direwolf, isn't it?" Petyr smiles easily. He offers her his hand. "Come and salute your subjects, your Grace."

Sansa pales. She takes Petyr's hand as her eyes meet Bran's across the table.

"They will expect you to speak," Petyr whispers. "Don't worry about the Dragon Queen just yet - she'll have come across an angry northern mob. No one will have taken kindly to her attempt to swindle the North away from the Starks, not with winter settling in and her troops eating up our stores... Or that's the word around the castle, I hear..."

Sansa looks at him, at his poisonous smile.

 _You foolish girl_ , she thinks. _What have you done._


	7. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She could poison your wine and slit your throat, and still you would choose her."
> 
>  _If it gave her what she wanted, of course_ , Jon thinks. _If I were allowed to die in her arms. But the betrayal would hurt, more than a mouthful of poison or a gaping wound._

"A sinister place, even after everything we've seen," Davos notes.

They stand at the edge of an outcrop of rock, a stone's throw away from a frozen river, and on the other side of the river is the cold men's camp. The air is oddly still, void of the usual sounds of a dormant campsite; there are no watchers, whispering around the fires, and no snorting beasts, idly kicking the ground in their sleep. Davos is right, it is a sinister place, though this is not what drew Jon's attention.

"Did you see her?" he asks.

"See who, your Grace?"

"The girl," Jon says, nodding in the direction of the tent where he saw the wisp-like figure. It wouldn't serve him to try and point. The girl is gone.

"If you mean to speak to Queen Daenerys tonight, may I suggest you do it now, your Grace?" Davos presses him.

"Yes," Jon says absently, his eyes still on the camp ahead. "I'll go."

"This has to be a misunderstanding," Davos says. "If we..."

"They've made their choice," Jon interrupts him. He's been dreading this conversation ever since they left Winterfell. They'd hurried past the South Gate like runaway thieves; the bemused soldiers at the gate didn't even have time to understand what had befallen them.

"You can't know how Daenerys will receive you," Davos protests, though as often with Davos, there's no violence to it. It's merely a gentle remark, laced with concern. "If you were to go back, and intercede with your sister..."

He stops short. Jon glances at him. It's easy to picture what is going through Davos's mind in that moment - the Great Hall descending into chaos, and at the front of it, the bastard of two houses and king of none, pulling in his sister by the front of her dress to debase her with a kiss.

"I'll go," Jon repeats. "You can just walk on and tell Daenerys I'm on my way."

Davos's stern gaze would probably be far more intimidating by daylight. As it is, Jon can barely make out his features, and the only reason he knows Davos's current expression is that he's seen it often enough during the last few months. Eventually, Davos does turn around, and slowly, his reluctance perceptible in every step, he begins to walk back towards the Targaryen camp.

Jon returns his attention to the wintry plain. There's still no sign of the girl, and he doubts she'll come out again. But he knows what he saw. She wasn't just  
a serving girl, or the relative of one of the cold men. He's seen the likes of her before, wandering around Winterfell. They all have the same soft, glowing faces and the same flowing hair, and they wear silk dresses under their rich velvet capes. Littlefinger's whores. Why would one of them wander the cold men's camp? She'd looked so incongruous in the sodden field, among the dead fires and the mouldy pelts.

Littlefinger must have thought Jon would never find out, but he'd have had to be blind not to notice them, all these girls who wove in and out of the camps, in and out of the Keep. With every step they took, the coins in their pockets jingled and sang. _After the war_ , he used to think, though that's where the thought stopped, for he had no idea what he might do. Ban the girls from exercising their trade within the castle? Send them out in the cold? And then the war had ended, and he'd hardly had time to return to the issue.

But here they are, these girls, inside the cold men's tents. It shouldn't make any sense - the men are as good as dead, and their passions dead, too. What pleasure might they derive from the bodies of women? Though Jon had died, too, and if he still has desires, why wouldn't they?

The previous night, he'd walked into his room to find one of these girls in his bed. It was late; he was exhausted. In the soft glow of the receding fire, and with her back to him and her red hair spilt upon the pillow, the girl had looked like Sansa. He'd moved towards the bed like a man wading through water. She even _smelled_ like Sansa, that faintly flowery smell that Ghost knew so well. He was already lying beside her, his nose all but buried in her hair, when she turned around inside his arms and he saw that it wasn't Sansa but some impostor. He'd scrambled back so fast he'd fallen off the bed.

"I can call you brother if you like," she said, smiling, and Jon felt a measure of relief that he didn't know where Littlefinger slept, or he might have charged into his room, and shoved a sword through his corrupted heart.

He regrets it now. He regrets not doing it in the Great Hall, when Littlefinger was on the other side of the table and well within arms' reach. It would have been easy to snag a sword and pierce him through. The idea hadn't even occurred to him at the time. There was only the slow swelling of the room as it turned against him, the rancour and the demands and Sansa's harsh, unrepentant beauty like an impregnable castle beside him.

"Jaehaerys Targaryen," he whispers aloud, wishing that Ghost were here, so that at least he'd be able to pretend he's not talking to himself, trying out a name that feels as foreign and cold as the plain below.

 

 

The camp is not as large as it once was. Part of the army has already begun to travel back towards the ships anchored in the bay beyond the Wolfswood. But  
it's a difference of a few thousand tents, with several thousand tents still remaining. From a human perspective, the camp looks unchanged, as sprawling and noisy as it has ever been. Jon and his strange guard have to pass the Dothraki stables and part of the Ironborn settlement on their way to Daenerys's tent, and the sheer amount of jaw-breaking fistfights and drunken bawling on both sides stands in sharp contrast to the cold men's camp with its menacing silence.

Arya falls into step with him as a blast of light erupts over the farthest reaches of the camp, alerting them to the dragons' presence.

"It's true, then?"

"Yes, it's true," he says, stealing a glance at her resolute profile. He can't quite shake the memory of her stance in the Great Hall, of how she'd assaulted a man three times her size without a second thought.

"You're still my brother," Arya declares, looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes.

Wordlessly, Jon swings an arm around her shoulders. He holds on long enough to plant a kiss atop her head. Arya doesn't speak either. In the shifting light of the campfires, he thinks he sees her wipe her cheek with the back of a hand.

"What's going to happen now?" she asks, sometime later.

"I'll try to convince Daenerys to let me live," Jon says. "And whether I succeed or not, I'll try to convince her not to start a war against Sansa."

"Why did you..."

Arya's voice drifts into silence. Jon suspects that she meant to talk about Sansa, but he's not ready to indulge her just yet. Besides, he can't be sure what she saw, exactly. After all, she had been very much occupied at the time, fighting drunken men for his sake.

He knows he shouldn't have kissed Sansa - of all the questionable decisions he's made of late, this was by far the most reckless, and there's no doubt he'll come to regret it, in time. It was retaliation of the most nefarious sort, and for a betrayal he's not quite sure he can hold against her.

He can very nearly feel the edges of her letters, tucked between his jerkin and his undershirt. Once he'd taken to wearing them like another layer of clothing - like armour or mail - it became hard to stop. There would be times during the war when he'd be close to believing that these crumpled pages were protecting him.

And perhaps they were.

Daenerys's tent is a castle made of canvas. At first, Jon wonders how her men could have erected such an imposing structure in less than a day.  
After all, of late Daenerys has been residing in the guest house at Winterfell, and she would have had no use for a tent. But it does make sense that there should be one anyways, as a symbol of her royal power and of her continued ties to her troops. At any rate, she must be glad for it now, having been chased out of the castle by an angry horde.

Davos comes out to meet them as they reach the tent.

"I'll see her alone," Jon says.

"Your Grace..."  
Jon thinks to correct him, and then realizes that he has no idea what Davos should call him. King or Lord or Stark or Snow. Or Targaryen, maybe.

"I'll see her alone," he repeats, looking at Arya this time, at her impatient frown.

Davos protests, very earnestly, and Arya does so with far less finesse and a final outcry of "Stop being an _idiot_!"

But when he finally walks into the tent, he does so on his own. Davos and Arya hold back, with similar looks of consternation.

"King Snow," Daenerys greets him. This time, there's an unspoken question hidden within the familiar title. 

"Your Grace."

The tent is empty but for them both and Yara Greyjoy, who is peering intently at a map in one corner, most likely in an effort to appear otherwise occupied.

"I should have suspected it," Daenerys says. "From the way Viserion took to you, or from the way that I myself felt a similar pull... I nearly thought I'd found a kindred spirit."

She steps forward. The fabric of her dress ripples like water, like light reflected on steel.

"I didn't mean for anyone to know," Jon tells her. "I never... I never asked for that crown. I never asked to be a Targaryen, either."

"Neither did I," Daenerys remarks. "One does not choose to be born into a great house. It is a responsibility as much as it is a privilege."

Jon glances warily in Yara's direction. He'd rather not have this conversation with her present, and he can't help but wonder if Daenerys has kept her here so she wouldn't have to deal the killing blow herself. Daenerys bears no weapon that he can see, but there's a sword hanging from Yara's belt. They've fought enough battles side by side at this point that he knows she can use it.

"I don't intend to challenge your rule," Jon says. "I grew up as Ned Stark's son - I'm no dragon. I'll bow to you if that's what you wish. But if Sansa decides to claim the North, she'll have my allegiance, too. You must know that."

"They cast you out," Daenerys says. "And you would still take their side against me?"

"Of course," he says.

"She could poison your wine and slit your throat, and still you would choose her."

 _If it gave her what she wanted, of course_ , Jon thinks. _If I were allowed to die in her arms. But the betrayal would hurt, more than a mouthful of poison or a gaping wound._

"Would it make you feel safer if you killed me?" he asks.

"Do you want to die?" Daenerys retorts.

Jon looks back towards Yara, who has given up all pretense of observing her map, and is gazing at them instead, her face inscrutable. Daenerys steps closer still, until she is standing right in front of Jon and has to tilt back her head to look him in the eye. She peers at him intently. Once she's done, she turns towards Yara and says, "Leave us."

Yara smiles slightly on her way out, though Jon has no idea what it could possibly mean. Amusement or mockery or even indifference. He might have warmed up to Daenerys during the final stretch of the war, as they searched for one another across blood-stained plains and snow-soaked woods, their shouts echoing through the mist. But Yara is something else, with her callous words and her thin, daring grin. He sees Theon in her, the Greyjoy confidence and the Greyjoy cruelty. He doesn't trust her. He's relieved to see her leave.

"Why would I want you dead?" Daenerys says, once Yara is gone. "I thought I was the last living dragon. It was a heavy burden to bear, enough so that I wished at times that my foolish brother was still alive, and he was the worst possible relative one could wish for... But I'm no longer alone. I will acknowledge you as my brother's son and a true Targaryen. And I'll be glad to do so."

When Jon had stumbled out of Winterfell, he'd been convinced that Daenerys would kill him, unless he could find a convincing argument to stay her hand. He's fairly sure none of what he has said since he stepped inside her tent would qualify as a "convincing argument". And yet, here she is, giving him his inheritance.

"I'm... grateful," he says, realizing he doesn't know her half as well as he thought he did.

Daenerys smiles. "You're welcome," she says, and before he has time to react, she pulls him into a soft-scented embrace, her arms clasped tight around his neck. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches up and flattens his hand across her back.

"Jaehaerys?" she asks.

"Jon," he corrects her. And though he'd felt awkward at first, with the softness of her body like a lure that must surely hide a pointed hook, he finds now that he's reluctant to let her go. She's offering him a name, and shelter, and warmth. It is far too tempting a bargain for a bastard who until a moment ago had been nameless and homeless.

"You will come south with me," she decides. "You'll publicly declare that you renounce your claim to the Iron Throne. And then you will be my valued advisor, and the commander of my armies. I might cede you Dragonstone... Unless you would rather remain in King's Landing by my side."

"As much as I appreciate the offer," Jon says, mildly grateful that she couldn't see his wince upon hearing this order disguised as a suggestion, "I can't accept. I won't go south."

"You can't accept," Daenerys repeats. Her arms are still around his neck, but he gets a distinct feeling that she'd much rather strangle him than prolong the embrace. "What would you rather do? Stay here? Do you honestly believe you can win them back?"

The honest truth is that he does believe so. Littlefinger and the Knights of the Vale never did make up the majority of his support in the North, and this majority was easily swayed by frustration and what must have been a few too many barrels of ale. With the right words, they could just as easily lean the other way, especially once the dawn rises. Then they'll be forced to face the fact that they have besmirched every single rule of good conduct, in favour of throwing out a woman whom they take to be half-dragon, and a man whom they view as a god and a monster in equal measure. The only way this situation will stand is if he refuses to return. Should he step down of his own volition, the North will pass safely into the hands of Sansa or Bran.

And thus, step down he will.

"You could send me North," he tells Daenerys. "I doubt the solution to all future invasions will be a new wall, but in the meantime, something must be done about the hundred miles of debris and dead bodies... And the Watch should be reinstated, at the very least. Though it cannot follow the same rules as it did in the past."

Daenerys takes a step back, rubbing her hands as if some of the outer chill had suddenly penetrated the tent.

"You were Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," she says. "Should you wish to take the black once more, I could..."

"No," he interrupts. "That part of my life is over. But I could set off with a few men... Recruit some of the Free Folk who reclaimed the lands of the Gift... I would stay well out of your way."

"I don't understand you, Jon," she says. "You would have to dislike me with a passion to prefer spending the winter as far from me as you can, and as far north as you can, where you'll be certain to lose one of your men with every frozen wind that comes your way. Or if you do like me, and if the news of our family ties fills you with half as much joy as it does me, you must have an unparalleled dislike for politics... And yet I know for a fact that you're an able leader. I can't picture you leaving it all behind. You wouldn't exist without the recognition of your people. You are of a sort that needs to be needed to endure."

"Maybe this was all a mistake, and it's Sansa you're related to," Jon huffs. "You both take issue with my lack of..." He shakes his head. "I don't even know what to call it. Ambition? It's more than that, isn't it? It's a vital imperative to you. To all of those who've been trying to climb on this throne for the past few years. For the past few _centuries_. It's not ruling that I'm opposed to. It's this idea that I couldn't do so without offending five or six people who'd rather die than serve anyone but themselves."

"Things would be different if we had grown up together," Daenerys muses. "You would have spent years hearing the same stories I did. You'd have been kept alive by the same thirst for vengeance, and it would have taken root in you as well, one way or another. I see that it's too late now... But it might be for the best. And if you really wish to go North, I won't try to dissuade you. But I have one request: that you end this self-imposed exile before it kills you."

"I have one request, too," Jon says, because it has to be said, and he'd rather do it now, when she's looking at him with a thoughtful expression, patient and fond. It's not a look he's seen often on her, not unless the dragons were in her field of vision, or sometimes, Yara Greyjoy. "I'd ask you not to fight Sansa," he says. "I suppose they'll crown her..."

"She'll crown herself," Daenerys corrects.

"Perhaps. She has all the makings of a good ruler, and she wants what's best for the North. It'll be much less of a strain on you to know that you can focus on rebuilding King's Landing and asserting your hold on the South. And there's the lands you conquered on the other side of the Narrow Sea... You don't need the North. What you need is a strong alliance, and she'll give you that."

"I could send Tyrion to her," Daenerys says. "And ask that she honours her wedding vows." She takes a look at Jon's face and laughs out loud. "And here I thought you'd become something of a politician. A word of advice, Jon. Your speech was convincing, but your face right now is a picture of horrified stupor. You might want to learn how to hide your feelings a little better than this."

"I just think... I doubt she'll agree to your terms," Jon says, trying to control his treacherous features, his raised brows and the disbelieving slant of his mouth. 

"Because I am the one asking? Because she bears a grudge against Tyrion? Or because she would rather marry someone else?"

"I can't be sure," Jon says, lying through his teeth. It seems smarter than to say that Sansa will refuse to obey Daenerys out of spite, and that though she likes Tyrion well enough, he's reasonably certain that she'll marry Petyr Baelish, sooner rather than later.

"Do you think I'm not aware of Baelish's scheming?" Daenerys asks. "Would I be wrong in assuming that he had a hand in our untimely eviction, even if the only men who came after me were Northerners, and no one in Winterfell will rush to accuse him of conspiring against us?"

Jon can't possibly answer that with the truth, which is that he had no idea that she was even aware of Littlefinger's existence. It seems obvious now that she would be. But after so many months spent on the battlefield, Jon had been happy enough to leave Littlefinger and his schemes to Sansa. He'd assumed that Daenerys was in a similar situation, battle-weary and out of touch with the intricacies of power in the North.

Then again, if Daenerys had really been aware of Littlefinger's plotting, they wouldn't be standing in a tent a mile south of Winterfell.

"I wish I could have killed him right there in the Great Hall," Jon says. In this at least, he can be fully honest.

"He will have to be dealt with," Daenerys agrees. "My advisors in the South... Tyrion of course, and Varys too... Both have insisted upon the urgency of the matter. I can see now that I didn't take them seriously enough. I thought that this could wait until my sovereignty was properly established. Is there a risk that he will marry your sister before any of us can intervene?" Once again, she takes a careful look at his features, and once again, she seems surprised by what she finds there. "There is a harshness to your anger," she says. "It reminds me of my brother."

"You should look after yourself," Jon tells her, as he once again tries and fails to contain whatever it is that she saw. Annoyance, maybe. Undoubtedly bitterness. "He might be aiming for a greater prize than the North alone. But I have no intention to get involved. I just... Whatever you do. Don't hurt my sister. Or any surviving Stark, for that matter."

"You want me to support your sister's claim. Yet you know I will have to rid myself of Baelish, and you know that Baelish and your sister are thick as thieves. Have you considered the possibility that they might be lovers? ... And here is it again, that Targaryen anger. You're a prideful man, Jon Targaryen."

"I just need your word that she won't be hurt, whatever the nature of her relationship with Baelish."

"And you have my word," Daenerys says. She reaches gently for his hand and squeezes it. "It would be a precious waste of our time if we were to argue. Go North if you must, but know that you can return. And I will watch my back, and find a way to placate your sister."

Jon squeezes her hand in return, and ventures a smile. He'd walked in here expecting a death sentence. At the very least, Daenerys's kindness deserves a little warmth in return, if not a fraction of the patience and understanding that she's shown towards him.

"I am glad..." he begins. The words stick inside his throat and won't come out. But she smiles, and holds his hand tighter, and for the first time since he left the castle, he feels his heart slow down and his mind settle, if only for a moment.

He has barely stepped outside that a voice greets him, loud and mocking.

"So it's Jon Targaryen now?"

Yara stands at some distance from the tent, with her shoulders hunched and her arms crossed in an attempt to fend off the cold.

"I suppose it is." He looks around for Davos and Arya. Yara follows his gaze.

"We've given them tents. They'd have to be very stupid or very drunk to wait outside in the cold."

"Which one is it, then?" he asks, the words all but turning to ice against his lips.

"What?"

"You're waiting outside in the cold. Are you very drunk or very stupid?" 

Yara snorts. "No more stupid than you, that's for sure. And not drunk enough, not yet." She sighs. "Come and have a drink, then."

"Now?" Jon asks, looking up at the clear night sky, at the white fog of his breath rising towards it.

Yara grabs a fistful of his sleeve and pulls him roughly onwards and towards one of the campfires.

"Unless you'd rather wait here until she changes her mind and asks me to stab you in the gut."

"And your answer to that is to get me drunk first and stab me later?"

"Aye," she grins.

Jon realizes that he doesn't have a proper answer to that. So he stops talking, and follows.

 

 

And so it is that he finds himself several hours later, buried under piles of fur and listening to what must be the hundredth tale of plunder since him and Yara stumbled into the tent with their numb fingers and their chattering teeth. His hands are pleasantly warm now, wrapped around a bottle of foul-tasting brew, and his mouth is no longer frozen into an expression of sullen discomfort. He's not exactly smiling, but he feels better at ease, despite the strangeness of the company.

The men around him are all Ironborn. They've grown restless for want of a ship and for want of the sea. Their only remedy to these afflictions is an endless cycle of bloody tales and bloody fights, with a few mouthfuls of hard liquor in between to wash away the blood. The skin around Jon's left eye is tender and swollen as a result of a drunken punch that was probably meant for Yara. His hand still smarts from the blow he dealt in return. One of the men had spat a few teeth across the dirty furs, and it might be the man who's currently talking; it would certainly explain why his story makes no sense, all mumbles and slurs. It's difficult to tell if he's talking about a ship or a woman. Maybe he doesn't know himself.

"We heard about you many times along the way," Yara says, from somewhere above his shoulder. That's when he notices that he's lying on his back. "The things they said about you... I had a whole other picture in mind."

"What picture?" he asks.

The other man is still talking, and maybe the others are listening, or maybe they're all passed out. It seems like Jon would only need to concentrate to look past the canvas of the tent and see the starry sky beyond. It's a strange idea to reflect upon, that these are the stars that he would sometimes gaze at during the war, thinking about Winterfell and how this same sky would serve as a canopy to Sansa's harried nights.

"Oh, we heard the usual tales," Yara says. "He came back from the dead, so he must be a god. He fights like a wolf and at night he turns into one; that's why they call him the White Wolf. He's brave and too righteous for his own good. He's a sad man. He's the wisest king the North has ever had. He's a Stark through and through. And they said much about your looks. The both of you. Hard to say which one was the prettier of the two, the king or his sister."

"Good to know that word of my looks travelled all the way to King's Landing," Jon notes dispassionately, fingering the cork of his bottle.

"Aye, that was the nice talk. The rest was... Rather more entertaining."

Jon cranes his neck, finds that he's had his head in her lap the entire time. She looks down at him, the corner of her mouth twitching.

"Jon Snow, they said. He turns into a wolf and goes to meet his sister, because she's the fairest in the realm and men and wolves don't follow the same laws. There's some who think you mate as wolves. When I got to the camp, the first thing Daenerys told me was, he's not a god, and he's not a wolf. He's a man, and a broken one. When she met your sister though..." She buries a hand in his hair and pulls, hard, until he lets out a stifled gasp. "She said, that one's a wolf. And she'll guard him until her dying breath."

"She betrayed me."

"I'm not going to listen to you whine. You had everything a man could want. The glory and the riches and a shot at marrying whomever the fuck you wanted. She's not your sister, after all. And you tried so hard to throw it all away. You remind me of my damn brother. Though if there's one thing I know, it's that he'd rather die ten times over than risk hurting Sansa ever again. Oh, you're not going anywhere," she adds, when he tries to rise. "What do you intend to do? Crawl out and die with that angry frown frozen on your face?"

"How could I have known," he seethes, "that Daenerys would welcome a bastard nephew? And she might welcome me now, but if I'd gone and married Sansa as a Targaryen, and been crowned King of the North as a Targaryen... Do you really think Daenerys would have been happy with the news? And bending the knee as a Targaryen... The North would have risen. As they very well did."

"You've thought about it, haven't you?" Yara says. "Did no one ever tell you that to deceive people, you have to be good at deception? Whatever your fucking reasoning was, it was skewed from the start. You failed to take into account the fact that at some point, every skilled liar around you would find out that you'd lied. Baelish, your sister, Daenerys. It was always going to come out."

"What the fuck was I supposed to do then?" he snaps.

To his surprise, Yara laughs.

"Finally," she says. "I knew there was more to you than all that moping and sulking. Even when you fight, d'you know that? You'd be there cutting down White Walkers and you'd still manage to look so fucking sad. Maybe we can have a proper fight, now. A _fun_ fight."

Fortunately perhaps, this doesn't come to pass. By now they've spent enough time in the dank atmosphere of the tent that they're dizzy with it, and it's not long before Jon falls asleep, or rather passes out cold, with his head still on her leg and his hand half-wrapped around what he believes to be a dagger, but which is really the neck of an empty bottle.

Soon the only sound in the tent is the drunken Ironborn's mumblings, and even these come to fade after a while, until it's just Yara staring at the fading lantern, trying to trick herself into thinking that the weight across her lap is Theon, with his craving for a kindness that she'll never find it in herself to give.

 

 

A sprawling weirwood tree, its leaves rust-coloured and strangely static in the morning breeze. The ground under Jon's feet is white with snow, glinting with ice. But in the midst of the whiteness he glimpses an unexpected sight: a long strip of green grass, unrolling like a ribbon from his feet to the base of the tree. When he looks around him he sees other similar patches of grass, arching away from the tree in a peculiar spiral.

"The White Walkers," Bran says.

Jon turns around and finds Bran behind him. But he isn't the crumpled form Jon remembers. Instead, he stands on his own two feet. The two of them are nearly of a height, and it strikes Jon suddenly that Bran is no longer a child with the eyes of a grown-up, but a man in his own right.

"How?" he asks.

"We're not really here." Bran takes a few steps forward and kicks a little snow into one of the rope-like patterns of grass. "You're in Daenerys Targaryen's camp, and I'm with Ghost, in the Godswood. I'll send him back to you when I wake up. But I wanted to talk to you before you left. You mustn't leave."

This might be a dream-world, where the wind is far too peaceful and the air is as warm and drowsy as the slow awakening after a long sleep. But Jon's relief upon hearing that Ghost hasn't been harmed has all the tangible trappings of reality. It feels very nearly like a physical blow, and it takes him a few minutes to get his breathing back under control.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks. "Stay here? Start another war? Lie to our bannermen?" He sighs. "It wasn't just a lie to have me cast aside. I..."

"I know," Bran says. "About your parents... I've known for a while. And I wanted to tell you. But I wasn't sure it was the right thing to do."

"You knew," Jon repeats. He's looking around him as he speaks, at this land that Bran has either conjured up out of nowhere, or where he has transported them, with the help of a direwolf and an old tree.

"You didn't want to know?" Bran asks. It's more of a statement than a question.

"No," Jon says, and then, "I don't know. If I'd heard of it at a different time... I might have spared myself some troubles. But I don't blame you for not telling me. I have no idea what I'd do if I knew things the way you do."

"I don't think I'm supposed to share much of what I see," Bran says. "Sometimes it's contradictory, and I'm not sure it always comes to pass. But I really think I should have told you about... About your parents. Because I saw her. Aunt Lyanna. I saw her hand you over to Father. You were just a baby, and she was... She was crying, and there was... But she was happy, too. About you. She wanted you to be safe. That's why she asked Father not to tell anyone who you were. She thought King Robert would harm you."

"What was she like?" Jon asks. He's looking up at the still canopy of red leaves, trying to conceal his stricken expression, the prickling in his eyes.

"She looked like you," Bran says. "She had dark hair and dark eyes. She was pretty but not... Not like Sansa is pretty. More like Arya. Very strong-minded. And there was something wild about her. As if you could pursue her all you liked, but you'd never catch her. Or if you did, you might hold her a little while, but she'd soon be off and running again. She loved horses. She rode very well."

"A free woman," Jon whispers, thinking of Ygritte who professed her freedom even when her hands were bound and there was no escape in sight.

He can't find it in himself to begrudge Bran his clumsy description. He probably wouldn't have done any better had he been in his place. So he thanks him, and squeezes his shoulder.

"Don't go," Bran says.

Jon looks around them. The landscape does goes on beyond the tree, but it's mostly snow and ice, with a line of mountains in the distance, unless the grey- blue masses are clouds, signaling the advent of a storm.

"Where would I go?" he says, with a dispirited smile.

"North," Bran says. "You want to go North. I think we'll have to go eventually... This place, I've dreamed of it several times since you killed the Night King. I think there's something we have to do. Or that I have to do. I'm not sure you're supposed to go with me. Maybe..." He kneels down in the snow, fingers stroking a blade of grass. "Maybe if I find what I'm supposed to do, they won't ever come back. There are things buried up here that shouldn't have been buried. And the Children left old spells in the trees, but I don't know if I should find a way to undo them, or if I have to strengthen them..."

"I'll do what I can to help you," Jon tells him. "If you want to come with me..."

"But we're not supposed to go now. We'll visit this place in the future. Can't you see?" Bran is pointing at the grass, and for the first time since he became aware of his surroundings, Jon feels a hint of a cold wind, coursing along his jaw, seeping past his teeth.

"Grass," Jon says, understanding dawning on him. "The snow is melting."

"It will melt," Bran corrects him. "I think we won't find this tree until summer returns, and we're still years away from that... There's something else I'd like to show you. But I don't know that the tree will let me."

"The tree?" Jon repeats, eyes darting towards the pale trunk and the weathered face like a scar upon the bark.

"I'll try to take you somewhere else," Bran says. "I think you deserve some hope, and I trust you. I trust you won't blame me if for some reason, the future doesn't look exactly like what I'm about to show you. Focus on me - not on the tree. Look at me?"

So Jon obeys, and looks at the frail, narrow face with the full mouth and the dark, steady gaze. He looks until it's no longer Bran that he sees but every Stark king before him, stone-like figures shifting in his brother's eyes, unless it's the North itself, trees like mountains and mountains like men, everything grey and green and never quite living and never quite dying, a world frozen in time.

"There," Bran whispers, and suddenly he's a boy again. "Look," he whispers again, and Jon looks.

Though they're once again surrounded by snow, this isn't the barren landscape around the weirwood tree. They are in a forest, with a dense tangle of trees rising from the white undergrowth. Even if he hadn't spent nights on end fighting in these woods, Jon would recognize them. They're the woods of his childhood, so tied to Eddard Stark in his memories that it feels as if his lord and father were hovering at the edge of his vision, and if he were to turn ever so slightly, he'd catch a glimpse of him, standing as tall and proud as any centenary tree.

But a hint of movement draws his attention away from the trees. A few feet away from where he stands with Bran, two people are kneeling at the foot of a gnarled oak. And while the man has his back to Jon, the girl beside him is facing them. She must be around Arya's age, perhaps younger. Her long dark hair is braided away from her face, and when she raises her head, Jon has a vision of pale blue eyes, of sharp cheekbones and of a small, delicate mouth.  
He takes an instinctive step forward, and feels Bran's fingers close about his wrist, holding him back. The girl might be looking towards them, but she doesn't seem to be able to see them.

"What is it?" she asks the man.

"Here," he says.

Bran tugs at Jon's wrist, and has him step to the side so they can have a better view of what the two are looking at. The girl is wearing a heavy cape, just like the man, but beneath the wide fur collar Jon can faintly see the bright threads of embroidery, and her fine gloves are yet another sign of her high status. She leans forward in the snow, reaches out to touch what the man is showing her -- a flutter of white petals, a tiny green sprig poking through the snow.

"Is it a plant?"

She tries to remove her glove to touch the flower, and when she can't seem to do so in a dignified manner, she gives up and rips off the glove with her teeth. Small fingers prod the edge of a petal.

"What is it?" she repeats, soft and thoughtful.

"The first sign of summer," the man says. "At last." And he raises his head, and looks straight at Jon.

The shock is enough that Jon steps back, and in doing so, he loses his balance, or perhaps his bearings. Bran's hand falls from his sleeve. He wakes up.  
But that's not before he's had a good look at the man, at the features that he knows so well because they're his own, if maybe a little aged, with a few more lines across the brow and at the corners of the eyes. And across his chest, he sees the direwolf's head, carved into a leather strap. _I made it like the one Father used to wear._

The smell inside the tent is nearly suffocating - too many men passed out atop one another, reeking of alcohol and sweat and, in some cases, blood and bile. The lantern went extinct a long while ago, but the walls of the tent are lit up pale blue by the rising dawn. One of the men is snoring loudly. It's only luck that Jon should have slept with his face clear of the dirty pelts and well away from many a pair of dirty feet. Instead, he comes to with his cheek pressed against Yara's stomach, and her hand still wrapped loosely around a few strands of his hair. He disengages himself slowly, careful not to wake her up. He has a nagging suspicion that she wouldn't be too happy to find him slobbering on her jerkin. When he finally manages to rise, he picks his way carefully towards the entrance. Aside from the fact that he'd rather not spend another minute in the overcrowded tent, he must also face the fact that he's imbibed enough liquor to knock out a horse.

He finds a fairly secluded spot behind the tent to take a piss, and when he's finished he goes on walking, past more tents and then off to the side of the camp, where he can have a view of the forest. The sun has yet to come up, but the sky is blissfully clear, and the air, though cold, has a certain sharpness to it that is pleasantly void of the thick, quelling snow.

It will be a sunny day, and since the war began, these have been far and few.

Ahead of him, the forest spreads out in grey and green hues, from the sweeping branches of fir trees to the dead-like nakedness of birch and alder. His dream comes back in snatches, a flash of too-bright grass, a glimpse of a girl's face, her clear eyes startled and curious. He'd dismiss it all as a meaningless dream if Bran hadn't been there, Bran who once spoke to him in the middle of a battle, although he was many miles away and Jon shouldn't have been able to hear anything over the surrounding din.

 _She had Tully eyes_ , he thinks, looking up at the dark blue sky.

"Jon?"

"Arya," he says, and can't help smiling, because it's only the two of them at the edge of the woods, as the stars fade out and the world drags itself, shivering, out of the long night.

She comes to stand by his side. There's a bundle between her arms, quite obviously a sword.

"Did you manage to smuggle your Lannister sword out of Winterfell?"

"I'll follow you wherever you go, you know that," Arya says, as if she hadn't heard him, though her hands tighten around the sword.

"I know," Jon says. "My life depends on it, doesn't it?"

"And you can't go anywhere without a proper sword," she says.

"Arya. The sword is yours. I told you..."

"Not anymore," she says, resolute. "I asked them... With the hilt of your old sword... Here, have a look," she stammers, annoyed, and thrusts the bundle of cloth at him.

Jon catches it without thinking. Then, because she's staring at him with her most thunderous gaze, he pries open the strings and pulls back the cloth. There isn't much light, but he finds he doesn't need it. He'd recognize that hilt anywhere, the twisted metal and the burnt pommel, though it has been carved anew, the direwolf's head now black as soot. The eyes are still red and gleaming. He draws the sword out of its sheath, inch by inch. He can already feel the perfect weight of it. The hilt vibrates softly against his palm, unless it's his own hand that's shaking. As if his bones were rattling in recognition. He leans in and watches the dark quivering light of the blade, like wet rocks at the bottom of a stream.

"How?" is all he can muster, as he finally pulls the sword free, and turns his back to the woods so that he can angle it towards the rising sun. Holding it in one hand, he runs his gloved fingers down the blade.

"Gendry wouldn't do it on his own," Arya says, "but there were plenty of blacksmiths to go around, and with their help... I think he did very well," she concludes, a little defensively.

"You used Father's blade," Jon says, before he remembers that Ned Stark is no longer his father. And yet the sword is still here between his hands, with its Mormont hilt and its Stark blade.

"I paid the blacksmiths with all the gold on the Lannister pommel," Arya grins. "And the ruby. Of course, Gendry did it for free. Oh, and if you hold it the other way..." She guides his hand carefully, twisting the sword in his grip. "Here, there's a red line here, if you hold it to the light, it looks like a lightning bolt. They couldn't do anything about it... The blade feels warm in that place when you touch it. But you can't really see it. Gendry says after all the time the Red Women spent in the forges, there's some of their tricks still lingering in the air, and maybe some of that got trapped in the sword. I wanted them to start again, but..."

"Arya. It's perfect," Jon assures her.

He takes the necessary time to sheath the sword and set it down carefully before he grabs her around the shoulders and pulls her into a tight hug. Arya is prompt to hug him back. He feels her smile against his neck.

"What are you going to call it?" she asks.

"Longclaw," he says. "Like the last."

"Jon! It's not the same sword -- you can't..." She sighs, pats his back. "I suppose you're being true to yourself. Faithful and stubborn."

"It's a good name," Jon protests.

_Like my own. For all that I longed so desperately to change it._


	8. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the dream reoccurred during the war, it was Jon who crowned her, a strange version of Jon, stern and regal and pale as death, wearing an armour as dark and faintly glistening as dragon glass. He'd set the crown upon her head and she would always wake up at the same moment, when he placed a cool kiss upon her forehead, under the heavy iron band of the crown.

Sansa stands atop the battlements, fingers tapping idly against the stone parapet. _Any moment now. Let it be before the sun rises, and before anyone can see him as more than a streak of white on white..._

Already the sky is lighter upon the horizon. Thin columns of smoke rise above Daenerys's camp, and to the east, Sansa can see the cold men's camp at the foot of a hill, surrounded by trees. Farther east, she can just make out the winter town. Brown furrows in the mud lead from the castle to the squat little houses with their walls of peat and stone. The landscape is deceptively peaceful, from the slowly drifting smoke to the pallor of the blue and white pines.  
She wonders where Jon might be. Not far, surely. The hurtful memories seem to stick to the roof of her mouth. It's a mouthful of regret with every swallow.  
She's spent the better part of the night trying to appease the lords and knights, but in the rare few moments of calm, she's been trying to determine where her betrayal started and where Jon's ended.

_Now, now _, she begs, though her outward demeanour remains unchanged, and any guard who'd happen to walk the battlements would think her engaged in a silent duel with the Targaryen camp, as if she could fell it by sight alone.__

__The sky changes before her eyes like diluted ink, and still the plain below the walls remains empty. She has nearly made up her mind to go to the gate herself and investigate, when she notices a sudden dash of colour across the snowy field. A hare, most likely, long-legged and with a pelt the colour of butter. The beast has just about reached the middle of the field when Sansa hears the sound of an arrow letting loose. The hare stops mid-spring, legs extended, and collapses onto its side, splattering blood across the snow._ _

__Sansa stares at the red and yellow stain, her breath catching in her throat. Somewhere in a turret above, a soldier gives a victorious shout. There will be  
meat in his stew tonight. Sansa knows she should move. If she doesn't, and if Lyanna has not been able to distract the guards at the gate -- one of her men was supposed to stir up a fight in the courtyard -_ _

__"Your Grace."_ _

__She turns in the direction of the voice, forces a tight-lipped smile._ _

__"You didn't follow my advice," Petyr notes. His arm slides around her waist and his hand settles, warm and possessive, over her hip. "You'll have a hard time negotiating with Daenerys Targaryen if you're too exhausted to stand. You should have slept. And why would you come out without your cape? Here..."_ _

__"Don't," she warns. "People will talk."_ _

__She tempers this refusal with a reassuring smile. Reaching for his hand, she draws it away from the mockingbird brooch. In answer, Petyr leans over their joined hands and kisses the back of her glove. Sansa's eyes dart towards the plain and back. The golden hare is still lying upon the ground. Before long it will be covered in snow. Soon the soldier who shot it will go to retrieve it. But he can't have been alone in the turret; there will be others, eager to shoot any beast that dares spring into the open._ _

__"I need to talk to the guard," she says, and sets off purposefully towards the tower. Petyr follows with a bemused expression._ _

__Of the three guards in the turret, Sansa knows two. There is tall Rolland, whose father was killed serving Robb, and whose two older brothers died for Ramsay in the Battle of the Bastards. Rolland and his younger brother, a boy of fourteen, laid down their weapons after the arrival of the Knights of the Vale. They went on to fight for Jon in the war against the White Walkers, and that's when the younger brother died, gored by a dead hog. He returned several nights later, with blue eyes and tongue and his entrails trailing in the snow. Someone stuck an axe through his neck and once the night was over, Rolland found the pieces of his body, and burned them._ _

__Sansa had sat at the man's side during one of the long nights. She listened to him talk, his voice made heavy by grief and drink. He told her how he'd cradled the severed head all the way to the pyre and how he never let go, despite the still moving eyelids, despite the snapping jaws._ _

__She's heard many such stories, and it isn't the horror of Rolland's tale that made it memorable. It's the fact that once Rolland was done talking, he'd fallen asleep on her shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and she'd sat there for hours, holding his hand._ _

__The second guard is Willam, Grinning Will they call him, a native of the winter town. His sister is married to one of the cold men, but it's his mother that Sansa knows best. The old lady has been in charge of the granaries since the early days of the war. There are many who say that she'd let her son starve rather than deplete the castles' reserves. Grinning Will is her opposite in every way, slippery where she is staunch, laughing where she is stern. Sansa doesn't like him, nor does she like his mother. The one is careless, the other callous._ _

__The third guard she's never met, though she thinks she's seen him before, perhaps among the gamblers in the Keep. He is the one who shot the hare. When they enter the room, he is fastening his cloak, making ready to go retrieve his prey._ _

__"Your Grace," Rolland says._ _

__The archer sketches a hasty bow and Grinning Will follows, leaning low. His eyes remain on her. Years ago she'd have shied away from such a look, voracious and lewd, but she isn't that girl anymore. She stares hard at him until he stops smiling and his face colours with embarrassment._ _

__"Which one of you shot the hare?" she asks._ _

__"T'was me, your Grace," the archer says._ _

__"It was an impressive shot," she says, with a sweet smile. She has long since learned how to hone such smiles so they will be as efficient as any weapon. This one suggests a pensive kind of awe. She watches its effect upon the guard: how the man straightens up, how he can't help from smiling back._ _

__"Your Grace may have it," he says. From his voice, gravelly and low and with a telling hush at the end of the sentence, she identifies him as one of Lyanna's._ _

__"Thank you," she replies, with a gentle nod. "I didn't come here just to congratulate you. We've organised several parties of hunters since the end of the war, and I rode out with them on occasion. I don't think I've ever seen any of them display such prowess as you did, shooting that hare."_ _

__The men are watching her intently. Petyr leans against the wall by the entrance, a thoughtful smile playing upon his lips. Sansa has stepped towards the bow, and under cover of touching it, she's placed herself beside one of the narrow windows.  
"What do they call you?" she asks._ _

__"Marell," the archer says. "Marell Snow, of Bear Island."_ _

__"Marell Snow," Sansa repeats._ _

__She's met many a Northern bastard as of late, among Jon's armies and among the throngs of Northerners who sought refuge in Winterfell during the war. But with Jon gone, the name sits oddly on her tongue._ _

__"Would you be willing to lead a party of our best hunters, Marell Snow?" she asks._ _

__Petyr will laugh about this later. She can already imagine his words of praise._ _

___How wise of you, to make it seem like you're doing him a great honour, when you're sending him out in the heart of winter with a bow and a group of unmanageable brutes..._ _ _

__For the hunting parties are made up of men who will withstand the cold, men who won't return until they have killed something, even though the forest is as inhospitable as it will ever be. Sansa's main criterion to appoint the hunters is their hunger. It may be a hunger for food or a hunger for blood. It hardly matters, as long as they return with an old hog or a lanky deer or a dozen hares and birds to put on the dinner tables._ _

__Leading these men isn't an honour. It's more likely to be a violent, thankless task._ _

__"I will be honoured," Marell says._ _

__"Thank you." The smile pulls at her cheeks. She hopes they can't see how uncomfortable it makes her feel._ _

__There was a time when these crafty manipulations of men's hearts would nearly make her tremble with satisfaction. But she no longer finds any headiness in this power. There are more pressing concerns, and she needs her wits about her._ _

__She ventures a glance outside the window and there, watching her from below the ramparts, she sees Ghost. The direwolf is quite visible in spite of the snow. He's standing too close to the grey walls, too close to the muddy road._ _

__"Will, how has your mother been?" she says. She can hear the faintest undercurrent of worry in her voice. She knows Petyr will hear it too._ _

__"She's been fine," Will says. "She'll be well pleased to know you thought of her, your Grace. She's still counting up the food stores."_ _

__"You may tell her that her work is very much appreciated," Sansa says, all the while stealing glances at the direwolf. It's a wonder Ghost has seen her at all, framed by this tiny window over a drop of several hundred feet. It must be the hair; he'll have glimpsed a flash of red, and stayed his course. Perhaps he means to wait for her._ _

__"And your sister?" she says, turning back to Will._ _

__"She's doing alright. All things considered, what with the dead husband and all."_ _

___Oh, go back to Jon!_ Sansa thinks, hurtling the thought at Ghost as if it were an arrow. And finally, as if he'd heard her, he moves - leaping to the side, as if to evade a blow, and then darting off towards the nearby line of trees._ _

__Sansa braces herself against the windowsill, robbed of any energy save the strength to thank every god her family has every prayed to that her actions did not cause the death of another direwolf._ _

__"Are you alright, your Grace?"_ _

__Marell is at her side, his arm held aloft lest she should fall. Petyr is right behind him, looking concerned._ _

__"I'm perfectly fine," she declares, straightening up. "You should go retrieve your hare. After that, report to the armoury."_ _

__She's already stepped inside the staircase when Grinning Will's voice rises behind her, high and petulant._ _

__"We've been told not to harm the Dragon bitch if she comes to the Gate," he says. "Since it didn't sound right, I thought maybe I'd ask."_ _

__"Daenerys Targaryen is not to be harmed," Sansa says. She casts him a withering look. "You might be a marksman, but I should like to see you try your skills against two full-grown dragons. You will give the Queen the respect that she deserves."_ _

__"Yes, your Grace," Willam says, the odd smile flickering on his face._ _

___The Dragon bitch_ , Sansa thinks, sternly. Daenerys and her might be on opposite sides, but in this, at least, they can find common ground. Men are so quick to underestimate them. So prompt to desire and to scorn._ _

__"I trust you'll know what to say," Petyr tells her, as they walk towards the East Gate. "Insist upon the absurdity of a war... A war that she'd lose, no doubt. And don't hesitate to use every message we've received about the state of the South. She's needed back there. Tyrion Lannister can't rebuild the city with a handful of gold cloaks and whatever other forces she's left in King's Landing - Unsullied, I believe? Are they even familiar with the building trade? She can't squander all her men in the North. Meanwhile the cold is spreading south... It will take her army far longer to travel back than it took them to come North. If she waits another week, her ships will get trapped in the bay. I'll be thoroughly entertained if she decides to lay siege to Winterfell. The most powerful army in the world, laid to waste by wind and snow. This being said..." He snatches her wrist, halting her mid-step. "If she does refuse to let you rule... Don't provoke her into starting a war. Submit to her."_ _

__"Submit?" Sansa says. Surprised, at first. Then angry. "Submit! This whole... This whole uprising happened because Jon wanted to submit, and we didn't."_ _

__"Believe me, I know. And I'm fairly sure it won't come to that. But if it does, we'll be better off accepting her terms than facing the dragons. I'll be able to deal with her if she lets you rule, and I'll be able to deal with her if you let her rule. But neither of you can afford another war. Deal your cards well and she won't refuse you. And if she does, I'll take care of it - but not on a battlefield."_ _

__"It would be much easier for the both of us if you shared your plans with me," Sansa remarks._ _

__Petyr is spared from answering by the sudden arrival of harried-looking boy._ _

__"The wolf!" he says, panting hard. "The wolf is gone, my lord. Beg your pardon, your Grace," he adds, noticing Sansa._ _

__"Oh, is he?" Petyr turns towards Sansa, raises his eyebrows. "Would you believe that?"_ _

__"Bran," she whispers to him. "It must be Bran."_ _

__"Certainly," Petyr says, with an absent-minded wave of dismissal in the boy's direction. "Though I fail to see how he could have gone all the way to the kennels on his own... And wouldn't we have heard from one gate or the other if the guard had been attacked by a direwolf? No, I think the Targaryens still have supporters here. This is an issue that we'll have to deal with, eventually."_ _

__"I'll make them love me," she tells him, which is a far safer thing to say than, _The Targaryens don't have any supporters here. Jon Snow does. The White Wolf, the King in the North._ "I'll make them be loyal to me."_ _

__"And what about Bran?"_ _

__"Bran won't take sides. As long as Jon and I aren't fighting... And Jon won't fight me. But you have to tell me what your plans are. What do you..."_ _

__"It seems this will have to wait," Petyr interrupts, as they reach the gates. "You have a queen to convince."_ _

___He'll never tell me. He doesn't trust me. Fine then._ _ _

__She'll deal with Daenerys first and Petyr second. Until she's come to an agreement with Daenerys, Petyr remains of use - or at least, she has to trust that he does. It's somewhat difficult when he avoids her questions and vanishes the moment that trouble arises._ _

__As she walks past the gates, alone but for the five knights that Petyr has handpicked to escort her, she's startled by a sudden call._ _

__"Your Grace!"_ _

__As always, Pod seems embarrassed, though this time perhaps, he has reason to be. Daenerys's retinue is fast approaching. Predictably, she's come with Yara Greyjoy, whom Sansa would recognize from her sailor's gait alone. The remainder of the Queen's guard is made up of Dothraki warriors._ _

__"Now isn't the best of times," she tells Pod._ _

__"I apologize, your Grace. I've been looking for you all morning. I guess I'll just..."_ _

__"What do you want?"_ _

__"When the lady Brienne wouldn't let me come with her, she said I should look after you, your Grace."_ _

__"Where have you been, then?"_ _

__She doesn't mean for it to sound like a reproach, but Pod winces._ _

__"I thought you wouldn't want a squire at a noblemen's meeting, your Grace. If I'd known you'd be in danger... I came as soon as I heard, but it was all over already. I failed you. I..."_ _

__"There's no time for that," Sansa interrupts. "I was in no danger, and I'm sure I'll need your services. From now on, I want you to stay nearby."_ _

__She turns back to the approaching party. Daenerys is at her most regal, dressed in red and black with a high collar that frames her pale cheekbones and the curve of her jaw. In the sky above, her two dragons are flying in circles. Sansa finds it difficult to look anywhere but up, and yet she must pretend as if she hadn't seen them, for to look away from Daenerys now would appear like disrespect or cowardice, either of which might prove a fatal mistake._ _

__"Your Grace," she says, with a deep curtsey._ _

__"What did I tell you," Yara smirks. "There's a reason why they say she's the courteous Stark."_ _

__Judging by the look of her, Yara has spent the better part of the night at the bottom of a barrel. It would be decidedly discourteous, however, to remark upon her greyish complexion and her tired eyes._ _

__"I don't think that throwing out a guest in the middle of the night would count as courteous behaviour," Daenerys says. "In fact, one might call it a violation of the most sacred right in Westeros."_ _

__"I apologize for the way you were treated," Sansa says. "Though my bannermen might have reacted differently if either you or Jon had been upfront about his allegiances."_ _

__"We both know where his allegiances truly lie."_ _

__If there weren't a number of witnesses to this conversation, Sansa might have disputed the claim. As it is, she says, with some hesitation, "If you'll accept my hospitality once more, we might continue this conversation indoors. I give you my word you won't be harmed."_ _

__"You give me your word?" Daenerys raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "I can't tell if your intent is to reassure... Or to threaten."_ _

__"At present I'm mostly intent on getting us out of the cold, your Grace."_ _

__If she dared, and in spite of everything, Sansa would ask about Jon. But she fears what Daenerys's answer would be._ _

__The Dragon Queen takes a step back to exchange a few heated whispers with Yara. As often, Sansa is struck by the familiarity between them. To some extent, it reminds her of her and Jon. Surely this closeness must have been dragged to the surface by war, but it could have lain dormant before that, waiting like dull flint for a spark._ _

__"How about a middle ground?" Daenerys suggests. "We could talk in the village. Without our men," she adds, by which Sansa understands that Yara will be a part of this meeting. She wonders if she should request that one of her advisors be present as well. But if Daenerys agreed, she might have to summon Lyanna Mormont, and she doesn't particularly feel like putting up with the Lady Mormont's disapproval at present. As for Petyr... Well, he's made his own decision by wandering off, and even if he hadn't, she would much rather conduct these negotiations alone. Were she to win, it would allow her to claim the victory for her own. And if she were to lose..._ _

__Losing isn't an option. Whatever Petyr says, she won't back down. She won't lay the North at Daenerys's feet._ _

__"See if the draper will let us use his house," Sansa tells Pod, and as he rushes off, she tries to convince herself that she knows what she's doing._ _

__The windows of the draper's dining room have been thrown open so that Daenerys can see her dragons in the courtyard below. The draper's house is the roomiest in the winter town, and the only one with a proper dining room, complete with a set of high-backed chairs and a long oaken table. The dresser against the wall has been carved into elaborate patterns of bears and deer and wolves, and contrary to most northern houses, the rafters aren't completely black with soot. The house was built some eight or nine years ago for the draper's young wife. Of course, given time, it will grow as dark and dank as any dwelling in the North._ _

__Daenerys is leaning out the window while Yara sits at the table, her head thrown back against the headrest of her chair. Sansa stands on the other side of the room, and tries not to wring her hands._ _

__"What do you propose?" Daenerys asks at last, moving away from the window. "I'll hear you out."_ _

__Taken aback, Sansa falters._ _

__"You agreed to meet me without any of your advisors present, or any members of your guard," Daenerys says. "You knew I wouldn't hurt you. There's no need to look so startled."_ _

__"I couldn't be sure," Sansa says. "Though, I did hope you would listen to me."_ _

__She doesn't add that she is hardly as defenceless as she may seem. This house was used to store weapons during the war, in the large cellar below the kitchen. There will be a group of men from the town holed up in the cellar at present, ready to come out should she call for them. She knows them by name, has seen some of them grow up and has helped all of their families to protect their houses and their daughters against the war, with its fevers and its hungers and its looters. They might have fought under Daenerys's orders and they might respect her, but if Sansa calls for them, they'll attack the Queen and her dragons without a second thought._ _

__"Just so that's clear, we don't trust you, and we don't trust your wriggling eel of a friend," Yara calls out._ _

__Daenerys raises her eyebrows, but she doesn't reprimand her. "I want us to trust each other," she says. "The three of us. How often is it that the fate of kingdoms can be decided by women? I suggest we set aside whatever distrust there may be between us, and try to make this a meeting worth remembering."_ _

___That's why she brought Yara_ , Sansa realizes. Daenerys did not mean for Yara to act as her personal guard; in fact the both of them have left their weapons at the door, as befits a parley. But as a commander of armies and with her own claim to a part of the Seven Kingdoms, she serves as the living, stubborn proof that there may be such a thing as an alliance between female leaders._ _

__"I have been told that you agreed to give the Iron Islands their independence," Sansa says. "So you aren't completely opposed to there being another queen than yourself."_ _

__"There's a difference in scale between the Iron Islands and the North," Daenerys replies. "Especially if one takes into account the Riverlands. Your uncle was cautious, but it was in your name that he sent troops to fight the White Walkers."_ _

__"I would let you rule over the Riverlands."_ _

__"And how might your uncle react to such a decision?"_ _

__"My uncle might have sent me men," Sansa allows, "but he spent the past few months working with your people to rebuild the South. He'll pledge Riverrun to you if he believes you're his best chance of getting through this winter alive... And at present, you are."_ _

__It is giving too much credit to Edmure to present the situation in such a way. Her uncle isn't much of a politician, and it was out of respect for her deceased mother that she'd torn up the first letter Edmure had sent upon reassuming control of Riverrun. _You might not understand,_ the letter said, _how unseemly it is to let a bastard rule when you might have married and ruled in his stead. As your uncle, I feel it is my duty to help and advise you, and my first piece of advice would be the following: beware of that bastard brother. If you would let me arrange a marriage for you, there might yet be a way to salvage the Stark family name.__ _

__Sansa reread the letter five or six times. She let it annoy and haunt her. And once she was ready to make it public and forever ruin all relations between the King in the North and the Lord of Riverrun, she shredded it and she threw the pieces in her fireplace._ _

___I thank you for your advice, she wrote back. But I must ask that you refrain from giving me any sort of counsel in the future._ _ _

__And indeed, Edmure had refrained. During the war he sent them soldiers, and in the meantime he courted Daenerys's envoys, like he had courted Cersei's before that. Sansa did not reprove his behaviour in itself; it would have been difficult if not impossible for him to act any other way, positioned as he was between two powerful factions, and with lands and a people that had been struck hard by a succession of wars and by the onset of winter._ _

__No, what she reproached him was his lack of astuteness._ _

__"As for the Vale," she says, "I think it would be easier if I assumed control of it, at least for the time being."_ _

__"What next?" Daenerys asks. "The remains of the Wall? The frozen lands beyond? Yara, do you want a piece of Dorne?"_ _

__Yara laughs._ _

__"No, thank you, your Grace. I want nothing more than what I already have."_ _

__"Enjoy it while it lasts," Daenerys says, with a wistful smile. "Let it not be said," she adds, turning back to Sansa, "that we gathered here to divide the Seven Kingdoms. If it weren't winter, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You don't have the manpower to fight me, and you have forsaken the one man who might have been able to lead your armies. Besides, without Jon, you'll lose the support of the Free Folk. But we are in winter, and the time for war is over. I left a broken kingdom behind me, and I can't let others rebuild it. If I am to agree to this, however..." She looks from Yara to Sansa. "No more wars. We'll support each other, and ensure that every land under our respective rules survives the winter."_ _

__"Agreed," Yara says. Striding forward, she clasps Daenerys's forearm with a smile. When she lets go, her hand lingers a moment too long, her fingers sliding down Daenerys's wrist._ _

__"Agreed," Sansa repeats. She mimics Yara's gesture. Though Daenerys has to raise her eyes to look at her, she does so with enough confidence that Sansa has a sudden urge to step back. As she did time and again with the dragons, however, she stands her ground._ _

__"You have been crying," Daenerys notes, cocking her head._ _

__This time Sansa does try to withdraw, but she finds that the hand around her arm will not allow her to do so._ _

__"I don't cry anymore," she lies. Off to the side, the door slams shut. Though she doesn't dare break eye contact, Sansa guesses that Yara must have left the room._ _

__"I am trying to understand," Daenerys says. "How can I trust you, when you were ready to betray your own kin?"_ _

__"He betrayed me. He chose you."_ _

__"He chose me, indeed. He walked into my camp like the noose was already around his neck, and he was trying not to trip on it." Daenerys gives a slight shake of her head. "You thought we were conspiring behind your back? You're too clever to have been manipulated in such a way, Sansa Stark."_ _

__Daenerys lets go of her and Sansa staggers backwards. Reaching blindly for one of the tall-backed chairs, she sinks into it._ _

__"You didn't know," she says. "Of course." Something like lassitude steals over her. She leans her head against her hand, half-expecting to feel metal against her palm - the phantom shape of her future crown, already weighing her down._ _

__"You're both in luck that I'm not the mad Targaryen the rumours would have me be," Daenerys says. "And I think I know where these rumours came from. From somewhere inside your castle, where people can trade all manners of secrets and favours, provided that they know the right word, and the right person to whisper it to."_ _

__"I'll deal with this." Sansa's careful to project as much confidence as she can. Inwardly however, she knows that this isn't a promise that she can safely make, and that there's wisdom to her doubts. Self-confidence is a treacherous trait, and she would rather it brought down Petyr than herself._ _

__Daenerys holds her gaze for a long time, calculating the odds, perhaps. "Alright," she says._ _

__Then, at last, Sansa allows herself to ask the question that has been burning her lips. "Where's Jon?" And before the queen can see them, she hides her shaking hands beneath the table._ _

__"He's at the camp," Daenerys says. "Sleeping off whatever it was that Yara made him drink last night. I do wonder... if something had happened - during his escape, or at my camp... Would you have been able to forgive yourself?"_ _

__It feels like a slap in the face and certainly it was intended as one. Sansa rises from her chair, so that at least she'll meet this assault on her own two feet._ _

__"I love him dearly," she says, "but he was making a mistake, and he wouldn't listen to reason. I did... I did what I had to, and..."_ _

__She pauses._ _

__Oh, of course she could find the words to frame her course of action as the right one. There were quite a few who saw it as such, and told her so. _You stand for the true values of the North, your Grace_ , Lord Cerwyn said. _You saved us from an impostor and you gave us a chance at surviving the winter, casting off the southern yolk.__ _

__Hiding the truth from herself is another matter. She knows that it wasn't political shrewdness that motivated her decision, but jealousy and longing._ _

__"What does he intend to do?" she asks._ _

__"I suggested that he come to King's Landing with me," Daenerys says._ _

__Jon in King's Landing. Sansa tries to imagine what that would be like - Jon breathing in the warm southern air, walking around the Red Keep and sitting in on Daenerys's councils. Perhaps he would have as much trouble fitting in as their father... her father... had. Or perhaps he would thrive, in a Targaryen court._ _

__"He said no, of course," Daenerys says. "He says he intends to go North."_ _

__"North," Sansa repeats, incredulous._ _

__"Yes. North of the ruins. You would think that he'd have had enough."_ _

__"He can't go north of the Wall! It's getting colder every day."_ _

__"I've noticed," Daenerys says drily. "In fact, I'd much prefer him to be at Winterfell, with you. Unless you did mean to exile him."_ _

__"I... He won't return. He won't want to."_ _

__"We are too young for our own good, aren't we?" Daenerys muses. "In spite of everything. We try to put the fate of kingdoms ahead of ourselves - but we're still children. Apologize to him. Make it a grand affair if you need to, if you think some might still object to his remaining in Winterfell. Get him to return. We can't afford to lose him."_ _

__"I can apologize for the way he's been treated. And the lords will as well, once they've remembered that he's been raised a Stark, no matter who his father was... But what if he doesn't want to come back?"_ _

__"He could have gone wherever he wanted," Daenerys says. "I offered him a place at my court, I offered him Dragonstone. And instead he chose to wander the North, and he told me he'd support your claim. He pleaded your cause very eloquently." She sets a hand atop Sansa's. Her touch is gentle - her voice is not. "Sort out this mess, before we lose the last Targaryen prince to frostbite."_ _

__Sansa disengages her hand._ _

__"I need a moment," she says._ _

__It's easy enough, to pretend that she's overcome with remorse so that she can walk over to a window and try to gather her thoughts._ _

__There will be no inviting Jon back while Petyr is still around. Now that she has secured the independence of the North, Petyr is less of a  
vital support, and more of a liability. Oh, he might promise her other crowns, a greater kingdom. But he's underestimated her desire to have it all. To be a queen, and a Stark. To rule, but to remain in Winterfell._ _

__To retain that crown, and to keep Jon by her side._ _

__Deciding to deal with Petyr is one thing. It's another to come up with a foolproof plan that he won't see through straight away. She'll have to think of something fast, though. From the moment Petyr is gone, she becomes exposed._ _

__Gone is the commander of her armies, gone are the Wildlings and the Crannogmen. She has too few Northern troops, and they'll go on dwindling, since most of her bannermen intend to be on their way as soon as she's been crowned. Which leaves her with the knights of the Vale. They might swear allegiance. They might hightail it back to the Eyrie. It's likely that a well-worded letter to her cousin will ensure their continued support, but what if they were to turn against her? Once Daenerys is gone, and with her her army, Sansa's but a girl in a castle full of supplies that would seem desirable to any army. If the Northerners have been worn thin by the war, the same if not worse can be said of the knights, who've yet to become accustomed to these cold climates. She has no idea what Petyr promised them, or how close they are to cutting their losses and abandoning her cause._ _

__All of a sudden, it seems incredibly vain of her to have told Daenerys that she could hold the Vale on her own and from Winterfell._ _

__If Jon were to return... Then there would be no doubt in anyone's mind that she doesn't stand alone. Jon has the support of the Free Folk. He carries the threat of a dragon breathing fire over the North should anyone attack her. There's no saying Daenerys would defend her if she were to be attacked, but she'd defend Jon. She'd defend her own kin._ _

__"You could ask for my help," Daenerys says, as if she'd been reading her thoughts._ _

__Sansa knows she won't. Alliances between women are all well and good, but she can't be sure that if push came to shove, Daenerys wouldn't wrest the control of the North away from her. Sansa can't afford to show her that the power she's been boasting of relies on a man that she's decided to kill.  
She's come to a decision, and it is simple enough. It doesn't feel so different from the lists she would make during the war - check the granaries, visit the downtrodden, attend the vigil, stand by the gates at dawn to see Jon return._ _

__Except that this time the list has only two items._ _

__Get rid of Petyr._ _

__Survive him._ _

__"If you still intend to leave tomorrow, would you do me the honour of coming to dine at Winterfell?" she says. "I'll have the guest house prepared, so your Grace doesn't spend her final night in the North under a tent... I'll be glad to receive Queen Yara as well."_ _

__Daenerys is silent for a time, and Sansa knows what she's thinking about, for the same thoughts are coursing through her head. After the debacle of the previous night, and with no certainty that the situation at the castle has been resolved, why should Daenerys expose herself to further humiliation?_ _

__"I'll come," Daenerys says, taking Sansa by surprise. "We two must show that we stand together."_ _

__On impulse, Sansa crosses back to where the young queen is sitting and seizes her hand. "Thank you," she breathes out._ _

__"You underestimate how glad I am to see that our interests finally align," Daenerys says with a sigh. Her exhaustion transpires in her smile._ _

__

__

__As Sansa finds out, her duties as a queen are eerily similar to the ones she had as the king's sister. She must supervise the workings of the castle and rule over a variety of disputes, related for the most part to the lords' imminent departure. Someone seems to have absconded with four horses belonging to House Wull, and the Wulls are quick to accuse the Ironborn, pointing out that the horses could have been hidden amongst one of the convoys that left for the Stony Shore a few days back. Sansa appropriates two of the horses that her uncle sent to Winterfell as part of his contribution to the war and gives them to the Wulls, and she issues a message to Yara, asking for two more beasts and pointing out in subtle terms that even if the Ironborn were not responsible for this particular theft, there is no shortage of petty pillage that she could hang over their heads._ _

__Yara sends back two mules and a written "apology" full of innuendos and hidden insults that Sansa is not about to show the Wulls anytime soon. She pretends that the Tully horses are from the Ironborn and when the Wulls refuse to relent, she banishes them from the practice yards._ _

__Then she oversees the preparation of the guesthouse, in prevision of Daenerys's return for the night. That is where Petyr finds her, when he comes to fetch her for her coronation._ _

__"You seem preoccupied," he says._ _

__Sansa, who has been envisioning a hundred different ways to end their association ever since she returned from the village, can only answer, "I am."_ _

__They bring her a crown, fresh from the forges, and she pries it from Petyr's hands before it can cause a diplomatic incident - or something worse, if Lord Glover's face is anything to go by. His scowl is made even more daunting than usual by his darkening bruises._ _

__They gather in the Godswood and there she sets the crown upon her head, her hands trembling slightly and her eyes never leaving the weeping face of the heart tree. She wonders if this is how Robb felt - if this is how _Cersei_ felt. The guilt though, the guilt must be hers alone._ _

__They'd had a crown made for Jon, too, on the day they proclaimed him king._ _

__Robb's was lost but they assured Jon and Sansa that Jon's crown was an exact replica of their brother's. Jon never wore it, and it went missing the previous night. Sansa knows that it did because Petyr wondered, falsely careless, where it might have gone - and she knows because she retrieved it herself, and entrusted it to Lyanna Mormont._ _

__When Sansa used to picture her coronation, it always happened in a sept. The Great Sept of Baelor, probably, though really it was more of an imagined structure, with the stone figures of the gods looking down on her and a starry cupola so far above that it made her head spin. There were thousands of guests, all of them desperate to get a glimpse of her sumptuous dress. In the dreams where she married Joffrey, it was a latticework of gold over black velvet. Once these dreams turned to nightmares, she did away with the gold. Instead, she began to envision voluminous skirts of black silk topped with silvery lace, and any other sartorial variation of the Stark colours that she could come up with. It just had to look opulent enough._ _

__Along the way, the dream became a proper dream, and not just a flight of fancy to be indulged in as she worked on her embroidery. She would wake up with a start from a ghastly ceremony where Joffrey crowned her in front of her dead parents. And once she dreamt that her coronation was also a wedding, and that it was Robb's corpse who gave her away, with the great direwolf head sitting upon his shoulders and his bloody hand holding her icy fingers._ _

__Later on, when the dream reoccurred during the war, it was Jon who crowned her, a strange version of Jon, stern and regal and pale as death, wearing an armour as dark and faintly glistening as dragon glass. He'd set the crown upon her head and she would always wake up at the same moment, when he placed a cool kiss upon her forehead, under the heavy iron band of the crown._ _

__Reality, of course, is nothing like her dreams. There aren't that many people present, for one, so that at times and with the falling snow, it seems as if the audience is made up of rocks and trees. She realizes only as she reaches the Godswood that the dress she laid out for the occasion remained in her room, and that she's still wearing the grey dress she changed into after her meeting with Daenerys - her warmest garment, but certainly not the most majestic.  
The people around her do not look joyful. They aren't paralysed with admiration. Most of the lords and ladies just want the ceremony to be over so that they can go home. They are wary of this new change of sovereign, relieved as they may be that Daenerys is leaving, and that the North will remain under Stark rule._ _

__They might love her - most of them do, she has made sure of it during the long nights of the war and the many strained moments in between. But they have not forgotten that it was Jon who saved them from the White Walkers. If Jon had decided to march against her, the North would have stood divided.  
And so, much like her weddings were nightmarish distortions of her childhood dreams, her coronation is something of a masquerade, only made real by the heart tree's vacant stare, and by Bran's encouraging smile, from where he sits at Meera's side._ _

__Afterwards, and as the Godswood has begun to empty itself, with the quiet reassuming its rule over bark and snow and numb flesh, Petyr approaches her.  
"My queen."_ _

__She touches her fingers to his sleeve, gives him a brief flare of a smile. "I have to oversee the preparations for the lords' departure. We can meet later."_ _

__"I'll find you," he says._ _

__Something about his expression unsettles her. As if he knew - as if he suspected her of something. It might be that her decision to turn against him has made her nervous. But then again this is Petyr, and she wouldn't put it past him to have seen through her lies._ _

__"I look forward to it," she says._ _

__This lie, at least, he'll believe. She looks at him like he wants to be looked at, like a woman might look upon a man who is powerful and desired and entitled to the world. A man worthy of a queen._ _

__Only a man like Littlefinger would mistake such a look for one of love. "Sansa," he whispers, briefly clasping her hand._ _

__"We'll talk," she says, with enough emphasis on the word that he'll know talking is the last thing on her mind._ _

__Petyr gives her the slightest nod. Finally, he turns around and walks away through the trees._ _

__Once most of the gathering has disbanded, and it is only her and Bran and Meera and Pod and one of the knights whom Petyr has assigned to her, Sansa removes the crown. She hands it to Bran, who accepts it and looks down at it with his unreadable eyes._ _

__"It's heavier than I'd have thought." He looks up at her. "It'll get heavier."_ _

__"I'll just have to get stronger, then," she says._ _

__

__

__Lyanna looks frankly disapproving, but by now Sansa has grown somewhat accustomed to the expression._ _

__"You ask for impossible things," the lady says._ _

__"I ask for your help. Is that such an impossible thing?"_ _

__"Oh, you have my help. Didn't I prove it this morning, when I helped you release the wolf? Now you're asking me to stay the hand of four very angry men. This I can't do. Though it might have escaped your attention, I am but a young girl."_ _

__Sansa gives her a disbelieving look._ _

__They stand before the statue of her namesake, but the two Lyannas are a study in contrasts. Even with her heavy limbs of stone, Lyanna Stark seems fragile and softly thoughtful. Lyanna Mormont however is severe and solid as a rock despite her bird-like limbs._ _

__"You don't understand," Sansa says. "I'm on your side. I'm on Lord Glover's side. But they can't just stab Littlefinger in the middle of the dining hall..."_ _

__"If you say the words 'guest right', I might laugh," Lyanna warns. Her face makes it clear that laughter is the farthest thing from her mind. "Do you know that about an hour before dinner last night, Lord Glover was approached by a man from his household who'd heard the most disturbing rumour? You know what this rumour was, since Lord Glover was kind enough to share it publicly with the rest of us. But I was more interested in the messenger than in the message. I spoke to the man today. He heard the rumour from a cook in the castle kitchens. The cook heard it from a soldier whose brother heard it from a serving girl in the castle. Of course he won't say who the serving girl is, but you and I could probably venture a guess as to who she's working for."_ _

__"... They can't stab Littlefinger in front of everyone," Sansa says, "because then the Vale would turn against me, and the only thing we'll have achieved is to convince Daenerys that we can't have a meal that doesn't end in carnage."_ _

__"I don't caution the means," Lyanna says. "But I approve of the end. You say we are on the same side, so I'll listen to your alternate proposal. I suppose you have one?"_ _

__"I'll take care of it," Sansa says. "But it has to be discreet."_ _

__Ever since she came back from her meeting with Daenerys, this has been the one constant in each and every one of her half-baked schemes. Robbett Glover and the others might be convinced of Petyr's guilt, but they don't have the means to prove it, and if they can't prove he engineered Jon's downfall, it's likely Petyr's murder would come back to haunt them, especially with his army still inside the castle._ _

__"I'll talk to them," Lyanna says._ _

__"It's better that way," Sansa insists. "Because if they've been plotting to kill him, there's every chance he knows about it already. He'll have thought of a way to upset their plans. If we talk them out of it, though, he'll think I intervened to save his life. And right now I need him to trust me."_ _

__Lyanna's dark eyes bore into hers._ _

__"How do you sleep at night?" she wonders. "With all these schemes running around your head?"_ _

__"There's something else I wanted to ask you," Sansa says, looking at the statue._ _

__Maybe they should have noticed earlier. Someone should have. Lyanna's softness - the curve of her cheeks and her full lips and her dreamy-eyed look - all these features that come across eerily despite the hard stone, they're Jon's, too. She looks like Jon._ _

__"If I was going to... to ask Jon to come back."_ _

__She doesn't miss the way Lyanna's attention sharpens at that, and how suddenly a good deal of her testiness seems to have vanished._ _

__"How much convincing would that take?" she asks._ _

__"This I'll help you with," Lyanna says. "It won't require much work. Most of your bannermen just need to be reminded how stupid drunk men can be. In what capacity would he come back?"_ _

__"I can't be sure he'll accept," Sansa warns, "and I don't know. Whatever he wants."_ _

__"I don't presume to understand the quarrel that led to this senseless situation. He wanted me to stay with you, so I..."_ _

__"He said so?" Sansa says, startled._ _

__"He didn't need to," Lyanna says dismissively. "It was obvious. Well I'll serve you until he returns and then I'll serve him, or you both. And when you have stopped behaving like children, I'll go home. I hope this won't take long, otherwise I might have to walk across the ice to Bear Island."_ _

__"I'm grateful for your ladyship's help," Sansa says. "In fact, I don't know what I would..."_ _

__"You may as well call me Lyanna, since apparently we are to be friends now."_ _

__"Very well," Sansa says, though she doubts she will ever have the nerve to do so._ _

__"You've been playing a troubling game, haven't you?"_ _

__Sansa looks towards the entrance of the crypt, where Podric is standing guard and pretending that he can't hear a word of what they're saying, even though they haven't made much of an effort to control their voices._ _

__"I've outgrown this game, I think," she says._ _

__Lyanna looks at her closely._ _

__"We've all made mistakes," she says. "I overlooked you, and I shouldn't have. As for Jon, he should have spoken to one of us. You or me or Ser Davos, there was no shortage of people he could trust. We all thought we knew best. Well. Get to work, then. I'll talk to the lords for you."_ _

__Sansa remains a moment longer in front of Lyanna's statue. For all that there's an echo of Jon in her aunt's pensive melancholy, right now it's not this Jon that she wishes to see. If she could, she would recapture that moment in the Great Hall when Jon stood his ground against Petyr. Gone was the shadow then, and gone the broken man. Furious as he was, he'd wanted to live - he'd been ready to fight for that right._ _

__She has spent so much time trying to kindle that spark in him; it seems impossible that she could have failed to notice when it erupted into an all- consuming fire._ _

__

__

__Many are preparing to leave Winterfell, in a chaos of provisions and belongings and horses and cattle. The air rings with strenuous screams as a cart rams into the smithy, while a tower of barrels collapses inside the granaries, pouring forth a purple sea. The corridors are quieter, rustling with whispers. Sansa feels eyes on her wherever she goes._ _

__In the middle of the afternoon, as the sky begins to darken, she steals away for a moment and heads back to the Godswood. As the heart tree appears before her, she half-expects to find Bran sitting between its roots. But the weirwood is empty, a muted sanctuary of ice and snow, with its frozen white pond and its gently swaying leaves._ _

__Sitting beneath the tree, she allows the previous night to wash over her once again, with its parade of regrets and deceptions. Then she tries to pray, dragging up the words from the recesses of her mind. But she stops soon after she's begun. The weirwood won't advise her. Its murmurs are not for her ears, and if she wanted to know what knowledge the trees held, she would have to ask Bran._ _

__Maybe he already knows what she's planning. The thought is rather disheartening, though she doubts that Bran would judge her or despise her._ _

__The previous night they met here in the Godswood. Or it might have been early morning, though the sky was pitch black. Bran was holding Ghost around the neck, and as Sansa came closer she felt a rush of air, and then the flat of a dagger's blade was barring her way._ _

___It's me,_ she said._ _

___I know_ , Meera answered._ _

__Sansa hopes no one will ever know that for the span of a breath, she considered taking that step. Saying, _do it, if you think that's what I deserve.__ _

__But what she said instead was, _I want to help you. Let me help you.__ _

___We have to send Ghost back to Jon,_ Bran had said._ _

__"Your Grace!"_ _

__She jumps, startled from her thoughts of daggers and gaping wounds. The voice came from her right, from among the trees. A girl's voice, soft and inoffensive. And yet. In the growing darkness, anyone could conceal a weapon, and the sweetest of voices could lure one to the deepest of pits._ _

__She hesitates, her eyes on the path that leads back to the candlelit halls. She breathes out a sigh of relief when she sees a familiar figure approach from the castle._ _

__"Pod!"_ _

__Something must have transpired in her voice, for he hastens to join her, just as the call comes again, closer this time._ _

__"Your Grace."_ _

__Sansa looks at the wall of dark trees and dark underbrush. Something moves just outside of reach of the greyish light, just as Pod steps in front of her, his hand going to his hip._ _

__"There's no need to draw your sword against me, m'lord. What wrong d'you expect me to do, a girl like me?"_ _

__Now Sansa sees her, with her hood thrown back and her eyes huge in her pale face. It strikes her that they've never been face to face until this moment. She's only caught passing glimpses of her, Petyr's red-headed whore, as she scrubbed a hall, or as she disappeared around a corner, with a man's hand splayed across her back._ _

__It might be the setting, with the cold and the trees pressing in on her, but the girl looks worn thin, like winter has finally caught up with her bouncing step and her feisty, provocative smiles._ _

__"He'll know we talked," she says, taking a step backwards, "but he doesn't have to know what we talked about."_ _

__Though the girl is smaller and slighter than her, Sansa still has the strange impression that she's talking to another version of herself. Alayne brought back from the Eyrie, or perhaps her reflection, as if she'd turned around and leaned towards the pond._ _

__"I won't follow you," Sansa says. "You must think I'm stupid."_ _

__"Dearest Sansa," the girl replies. "I'm not saying it'll end soon. But when it does, I'll be rushing back to you."_ _

__Nobody moves. Pod's hand is still hovering above his sword, but Sansa can tell that he's hesitating. The girl looks harmless, and he must be trying to parse the meaning of her words. Was this a threat?_ _

__Sansa is staring at her around Pod's shoulder. Petyr's accomplice, Petyr's confidante, a whore and a thief. The girl might as well have pulled the words from her heart with sharp-nailed fingers._ _

__"I really want to make you smile," the whore goes on, when Sansa doesn't answer. "Let me know if I achieve this much."_ _

__"Stop," Sansa says, her voice hoarse. "Where... how..."_ _

__The letters are with her. They always are, all of them including this one, hidden inside her bodice. It takes but a moment to sew in the thin piece of fabric inside which she keeps them, every morning before she gets dressed. In the evenings, one would have to lift her head from the pillow - and even then... Even then Jon's writing has faded. There are lines she reads from memory because the words have been erased by her constant handling of the pages._ _

__"I want to tell you things, m'lady, but you have to come closer. I can't risk being heard."_ _

__"Your Grace," Pod says, though there's no saying if he's admonishing the girl for her failure to use the title, or warning Sansa against her._ _

__"I'll talk to her," Sansa decides._ _

__"I should come with you," Pod whispers to her._ _

__"Of course you should come with me," Sansa says, as she shoves past him to follow the girl into the trees. "I'm not foolish enough as to hold my secrets above my life."_ _

__The girl waits for them a little way away, sitting under the shadow of a gnarled oak. Sansa wouldn't have seen her if her arm hadn't shot out, her hand snagging Sansa's dress as Pod and her were about to pass her by._ _

__Sansa pulls her dress free._ _

__"Talk," she orders._ _

__"I'd rather keep my voice down," the girl says, and indicates the tangle of roots at her side._ _

__"Your Grace," Pod says. He keeps a watchful eye on the dark trees, like he expects something or someone to spring at them._ _

__Sansa gathers her skirts and sits._ _

__"I need to know you'll protect me," the girl says._ _

__"Those words you said. When and where did you read them? Don't think you'll get anything from me before you've told me that."_ _

__"He read 'em. All of 'em. The ones you sent and the ones that came back. He doesn't know I know my letters. I'm not good at it... reading. I don't get much occasion. But my brothers they taught me, before. I just read that one, before he sealed it again. He read 'em and then he gave 'em to the knight and the knight brought 'em back to you."_ _

__And perhaps that's the worst of it. Worse than Petyr getting his hands on their letters, or one of his whores snatching one as it went by - the knowledge that they read Jon's words _before her_ , that when she held the letters and thought something of his smell remained, what she did smell was Petyr's rooms, the letter lying open on his desk as he sipped a glass of wine and pondered. _Should I return it to her now? How much longer can I keep it and let her worry that he's dead, that he hasn't answered?__ _

__She's reliving those nights, her frantic attempts at keeping herself occupied so she wouldn't run to the battlements and look for her messenger. If only she had set up a watch - then Petyr couldn't have intercepted the letters, because she'd have been upon the knight the moment he set foot inside the castle.  
Instead... Instead she might have put them in danger, and - in this moment when Jon seems as far from her as he's ever been during the war - she feels like she's betrayed him yet again. Tired, battleworn Jon who would confess his doubts in letters he thought only her eyes would read. How Petyr must have gloated, to see Jon's vulnerabilities laid out before him._ _

___The Gods help me, I'll have his head for this._ _ _

__"I know about the wolf," the girl says. "I know you let him go, and he wasn't happy about that."_ _

___Which wolf is she talking about? The direwolf, or Jon?_ _ _

__"I'd never seen 'im worried, but he's worried now. That's something he told me, you've always got to make yourself useful to the people who've got power, because you'll be good as dead when they don't need you. And I've been thinking, how much longer is he gonna need me. So I thought, I'll find myself another lord to serve, a better one. You'll find me useful, your Grace. I promise you will."_ _

__"What's your name?" Sansa asks the girl._ _

__"I'm Nin."_ _

__"Nin, start talking."_ _

__They speak in whispers, with Pod standing watchful at their side. He's developing a talent for pretending to be deaf to secret conversations._ _

__There's cunning in the girl and Sansa tries to take everything she says with a pinch of salt. _He's having you watched._ That must be the truth. _Everywhere you go. If you hear a jingle when you walk the halls, it's all the copper he's paying to have you followed.__ _

__But some of it is lies, too. _The night before last, I was called upon to serve a lord. A fearsome warrior, but pretty like a girl. He likes 'em with red hair and blue eyes, I was told, and I shouldn't be surprised if he marked me, because that's what wolves do. They bite.__ _

__"Lies," Sansa says, willing herself to believe it, though it's so easy to picture the scene. The girl crooking her finger and Jon walking towards her with that dark, sullen look. Desire and resignation. _Take what's yours. What does it matter now?__ _

__"Why would I give you lies?" Nin says. "I did go. And really, at first he didn't notice. Got right in the bed with me."_ _

__"Careful," Pod warns. He sounds angrier than she's ever heard him._ _

__"Well, he didn't fuck me," Nin says. "If that's what you want to hear. And I wasn't the first to try. I know some of the girls offered their services during the war. There's some say they forgot that part when they brought 'im back from the dead, but I know that's not true. I felt it that night when he got behind me in the bed, it was all..."_ _

__"Enough," Pod says, loudly._ _

__Sansa has a passing thought that she'll never be able to look him in the eye again._ _

__"If this is all the useful information you've got, I have a dinner to attend," she says._ _

__"I thought you'd want to know what he's planning."_ _

__"That's not what you've been telling me. I've had it with your taunts. If you know what he's planning, tell me."_ _

__"I don't know for sure," Nin admits. "It's not like he'll go out and say it. But he's had us scour the cold men's camps a lot, these past few days. Eight or nine of us. The pay's alright, but it's pretty pointless. They have no use for our services. Most of the time, we're just singing songs to them, or giving them a little warmth. I try not to go when I can help it. That place creeps me out - and the men, they're the scariest thing I've ever seen. Sometimes it's like they don't know they're moving."_ _

__"Did he say why he wanted you to go there?" Sansa asks. "Is it only about the money?"_ _

__Now that Nin has started talking she doesn't seem to be able to stop. Her voice shakes slightly from the cold._ _

__"I know some of us have been spreading talk. Badmouthing the Dragon Queen, or the Ironborn. He didn't ask us to do so. It was one of the girls suggested it. As a way to get the armies to leave faster, and some of the girls thought they might leave with them. But it could have been his idea. He's good at that. Making you think you came up with something that he wants you to do."_ _

__"Yes, he is," Sansa murmurs._ _

__She doesn't quite know what to make of these revelations, but the involvement of the cold men makes her uneasy. It seems to suggest the possibility of another uprising, far too soon after the last._ _

__"We've also been doing the rounds in the dragon camp," Nin goes on. "He wanted to know about the Queen's habits. Was she fucking someone and who  
was it, and would she maybe fuck one of us." _ _

__"And?"_ _

__"You want to know if she did?" Sansa can tell that she's smiling._ _

__"Yes." It's a small mercy that neither Pod nor the girl can see her blush. "If it mattered to him, it matters to me."_ _

__"She wasn't interested. She already had enough on her plate, if you ask me... What with the Kraken in her bed."_ _

__"The Kraken," Sansa repeats uncomprehendingly, thinking of Theon._ _

__"The Kraken Queen."_ _

__"Oh." Behind Sansa, Pod clears his throat. "You... You work in the Targaryen camp, then, as well?"_ _

__"Aye, now and then."_ _

__"And what rumours did you spread there?"_ _

__"Well, he didn't give us any orders about the dragon camp, either. We go there when we can. We give up most of our coin in the castle, but in the camps, no one goes through our pockets. And no one in that camp gets along. It's the horsemen don't trust the krakens and the southerners wanting to go home. Some of the girls, they know to use that. It's a game keeps you warm when the fire goes out. Reminding people why they hate each other."_ _

__"And Littlefinger?" Sansa urges her. "Did you ever hear him say anything?"_ _

__"I want your promise, first. I want your promise that you'll treat me right. All the soldiers are leaving the castle... I'm not going south. It's a long way to go in this weather and I don't want to be a camp follower no more. I want a house. I want a house in the winter town, a nice one. And food if I come to lack. And if it please me to turn the house into a brothel, you don't get a say in it. And I want a hundred gold dragons a year until the day I die."_ _

__"I'll find you a house," Sansa promises. "I don't care what you do with it. If you run out of food, you can come to Winterfell and ask for some, like any other villager. And you can forget about the money."_ _

__"Ah, I tried," the girl says. Sansa can hear her smile. "Swear it now? About the house and all."_ _

__"I swear it. By the old gods and the new."_ _

__"Alright then. Littlefinger doesn't make any deals in front of us. But I know he's made money during the war. Plenty of it. There's the cut he takes from us and what he gets from the gamblers, but he's also dealt in foodstuffs and in wood and other things we don't know of. Jeyne helps him count coin sometimes. She's seen it go by, big bags of gold, sometimes pearls and the like. I'd say he was looking to spend, because a good chunk of it is gone."_ _

__Sansa remains silent. She would need to mull this over and there's no time for it. There has to be valuable information hidden in what Nin said, but it must be reassembled. She doesn't know that she'll be able to do it on her own. It all comes back to the rumours, this steady weaving of stories and lies that have been coursing through the castle and the camps and the frozen countryside since before the war had even started. Knowing Petyr as she does, all these lies must be a means to an end._ _

__"I want to ask one more thing of you," she says. "There's something I need, something you could obtain for me."_ _

__

__

__Pod lends her his arm on the way back. She's grateful for it, although she would know the way with her eyes closed. It's his way, perhaps, of showing that she can rely on him, or that he doesn't despise her for what transpired during that meeting in the woods._ _

__It's become difficult to know for certain when she should be ashamed of something. The Sansa of old, the girl who'd never left Winterfell, would have balked at the idea of speaking to a prostitute. She wouldn't have made a bargain with a whore in order to kill a man._ _

__Then again, this girl wouldn't have fed her lawful husband to the dogs. She wouldn't have lost her head over Jon Snow with no regard whatsoever for the fact that he was supposed to be her half-brother._ _

__"I'll do it for you, your Grace," Pod says, unprompted. "I can..."_ _

__"No," Sansa says. "But thank you." She squeezes his arm. "You'll make a fine knight, Pod. And I don't mean... I don't mean because you're ready to murder people on my behalf. I meant because you're selfless and brave and kind-hearted. Straight out of a story."_ _

__"Thank you," he says, and she can tell that she's embarrassed him._ _

__As they draw closer to the courtyard, she pulls them both to a halt._ _

__"Wait. I need to... I need to think, first," she whispers. "What did you make of our conversation with Nin?"_ _

__"I think... I think something's going to happen?" Pod says, like he's testing the waters. "Lord Baelish is planning something."_ _

__"Lord Baelish is always planning something," Sansa whispers back. "Whatever it is, it has to happen tonight. There's no point stirring up resentment in the camps if everyone is leaving tomorrow. I want you to go to the Targaryen camp. Find someone we trust. Arya or Davos or Jon. Can you do that?"_ _

__"Of course," Pod says._ _

__"Have them evaluate the men's tempers. If everyone can hold out until tomorrow... Then the Targaryen army will leave and we can see to relocate the cold men. I'll go make sure the guesthouse is well guarded. Then... come back. Come back before morning. Knock on my bedroom door... Swear that you will. I'll need you there."_ _

__"I will," Pod says. "I'll be there."_ _

__She squeezes his sleeve._ _

__"Your Grace," he whispers, as she makes to leave._ _

__"What is it?"_ _

__"Is there... Is there a message you would want me to pass on?"_ _

__Ahead of her, Sansa can see the wall that runs along the Godswood, with the torches set high up in their brackets and the postern where the two guards are beginning to fidget. They must have seen them move, far-off in the shadows._ _

__"A message," she repeats, as if she hadn't understood._ _

__"A message for Lord Snow," Pod clarifies._ _

__Sansa nearly laughs. "I don't think there's anything I could say that he'd want to hear, right now," she says. Yet the question has her pause. It's not like she couldn't come up with something. She knows Jon well enough by now that she would be able to find the words to bring him back. But wouldn't it be like lying, to manipulate him so?_ _

__No, words wouldn't do._ _

__"Here," she says, eventually, and leaning a hand upon Pod's shoulder, she kisses him softly upon the lips._ _

__Pod makes a surprised sound. When she draws back, he takes a moment to clear his throat and shuffle his feet._ _

__"With all due respect, your Grace, I'm not sure I'll be able to pass that on."_ _

__"That's alright," Sansa says. "I'm not sure Lord Snow would have wanted it, anyways."_ _

__

__

__Petyr comes to meet her in her room. She is getting ready for dinner, swapping the warm but worn winter dress she'd accidentally worn to her coronation for something more befitting a royal reception. She doesn't immediately dismiss the maid when Petyr arrives, but he seems content enough to wait, walking over to the window and looking out at the torch-lit castle and at the newly-falling snow._ _

__"Thank you, Jeyne. You may go."_ _

__As the girl leaves, Sansa has to wonder. Does he pay her, this quiet girl from a village up north? Sansa had taken her on during the war, after she'd found her crying in the recess of a window, for a family or a friend or a lover lost. But she might have been bought all the same. He'd have found exactly what she wanted and he'd have offered it to her with a knowing smile._ _

__"My queen," Petyr says._ _

__He's come forward the moment the girl was gone and now he's kneeling at her side, his hand upon her knee._ _

__"I would have us celebrate," she says. It is harder than she would have thought, to take the hand upon her knee and kiss it, and then to lean down and kiss his smiling mouth. His hand curls around her neck, pulling her down. His grip is too tight, like he doesn't quite know if he wants to reel her in or strangle her. Sansa makes a muffled sound of protest when he bites down on her lip. His other hand is bunching up her skirts as it slides ever higher up her thigh._ _

__"Open your legs," he murmurs against her mouth, as she sucks on her bruised lip._ _

__"Not now," she says, quickly halting his hand._ _

__Again and again she keeps coming back to that same thought, that he doesn't smell right. Even here he carries the smell of the South with him: artificial pleasures, distilled to their very essence. What she craves is Jon's northern smell, leather and fur and something of the woods, too, and the blood on his armour and the snow in his hair._ _

__She looks down into Petyr's eyes as she threads their fingers together. His gaze is dark, a little unfocused._ _

__"Later tonight?" she says. "I can make sure we won't be disturbed."_ _

__"Sansa..."_ _

__She kisses him again, lest he should recover enough to get a proper look at her face and at the rising panic that causes her to shake within his grasp. She used to think that she enjoyed this game of theirs, but she's no longer sure. Her enjoyment has worn about as thin as his patience._ _

__"Soon you will be the only queen in this kingdom," he says._ _

__"Can I have at least one night to enjoy being queen of Winterfell?" she asks. "Before we set out to conquer the world."_ _

__"Do you know," Petyr says, "that there are some who say the Dragon Queen is mad, like her father before her?" He rises and leans against the wall, looking on as she resumes her preparations. "Oh, she'll say such talk is treason, but there are disturbing accounts... Witnesses... Men who saw her laugh as her dragons tore Euron Greyjoy apart. Warlords who say that she poured a cask of melted gold over her brother's head when he tried to claim her crown... Sailors who tell of a lover beyond the Narrow Sea, and how she burned him alive as a warning. _I'll be a tyrant like my father before me."__ _

__"It's just stories," Sansa says, tying a long pendant around her neck. "You know she's not mad."_ _

__"She might be, and that's enough. Targaryens... The madness is in their blood. Even him... He'd have to have been mad to give you up. The Gods know I would have chosen you." He leans down over the back of her chair, lips brushing her neck as his fingers slide between the pleats of her skirt. "I know what you did," he says._ _

__Sansa freezes, a bracelet dangling from her hand._ _

__"I know about Glover's little plot, and I know you stepped in."_ _

__"Of course I did," she says, though her heart is still threatening to burst through her chest. Hopefully, he'll think it's a result of his ministrations, the languid stroking motions of his hand that she can barely feel through the many layers of linen and wool. "I couldn't very well let them murder you at the dinner table, could I?"_ _

__"I would have dealt with it," he says. "But I'm... grateful, regardless. For this... proof."_ _

__Finally, he steps back. Sansa remains motionless on her chair, her back ramrod-straight and her legs clenched shut beneath the heavy woollen skirts. _I'd rather die,_ she thinks. _I'd rather die, I'd rather die, I'd rather die.__ _

__"I'll come to you tonight," he says, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. "Leave your window open if you change your mind, or if for some reason you can't dismiss your guard."_ _

__As he is about to open the door, he turns back, his fingers toying with the mockingbird brooch at his collar. "All I ever wanted," he murmurs. "Finally within my reach."_ _

__If it weren't so important to make him believe that she is still his to control, Sansa might consider asking him what it is that he expects to do once all his plans have come to fruition. Once he has bedded her and married her and conquered the Iron Throne. When he finds that his life stretches before him like a cold, empty plain after a battle, littered with corpses that he will have to bury and soil that he will have to plough. If it's prosperity he dreams of, he'll realize soon enough that he cannot bear an uneventful life. And if it's recognition, respect and admiration, he'll find out that his people can't love him - that he'll have to scheme every remaining day of his life to keep their support. And as he does so, he'll begin to resent his queen and the yearning looks that she casts towards her faraway home._ _

__It comes as a relief to understand, at last, that he is as much of a delusional fool as any other man._ _


	9. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I trust you," he insisted. "And if any man dares insult you again, I'll..." 
> 
> "You'll protect me?", she smiled. "The gods help the man who dares. My brother the king, the master swordsman, the White Wolf. The corpse with a beating heart."

She climbs to the top of the rocky hillside and looks around her. Though she tries not to look expectant, the hope is there in her eyes, in the way they eagerly canvas the forest around them. Jon isn't sure he made the right choice in telling her. It was some time ago. Whatever animals did pass here are long gone, or burrowed deep under the snow.

"It was here, you're sure?" Arya asks.

"Aye, but..."

"NYMERIA!" Arya shouts.

She pivots and shouts again. This time her voice is carried off towards where they came from, the eastern edge of the woods and the camps beyond it. Jon imitates her. "NYMERIA!" His deeper voice mingles with Arya's until the woods are echoing with their calls.

Nothing answers. In the intervals between their cries, they sometimes hear the distant sound of snow cascading down a tree.

"She could have moved on," Jon says. "There's not much to eat around here. Ghost hunts farther west these days."

"Maybe he could find her for me," Arya suggests.

"I tried. I did ask him." _But I'm too restless to focus on anything but myself at the moment._ "I'll try again tonight."

"It's alright. It's not your fault."

"Should we go? I'll guide you."

Jon scoffs. "I can guide myself fine."

But he walks behind her all the same, listening to the crunch of her footsteps in the snow. There is a slight possibility that he'd have gotten lost on the way back. He doesn't have her ability to navigate the night as if he were an owl or a fox, with eyes that see in the dark. Although if she is to be believed, it's not so much about seeing than hearing and smelling and touching. His little sister, the fluttering bat.

Maybe he was wrong, and she didn't expect this search to yield anything. She could have been trying to get him away from the camps, with that uncanny ability of hers to discern his moods. The frantic breaking down of tents and the disorderly packing of supplies had been slowly driving him mad. Besides, if he'd stayed he would have been expected to pack, too.

Of course, Davos has already made his preparations. The same goes of the men who will accompany them, including Arya's blacksmith friend. But Arya herself has yet to saddle her horse. Maybe she's sensed Jon's hesitation, his unwillingness to do anything so conclusive as charging his saddlebags with spare clothes and food.

Arya stops and Jon comes up behind her, narrowly avoiding a collision. The way forward is blocked by a familiar, hulking figure.

"There you are," Jon murmurs, kneeling to scratch Ghost's head. His fur is lit orange and blue by the fires of the nearby camp. _Maybe we'd be better off staying here,_ Jon thinks. The food is scarce in the woods but the situation won't be any better further up north. And if there isn't any game at present, the animals will return over time - they haven't fled the cold, so much as the fires and the thousands of trampling feet. The war might have been crueler to these woods than winter itself.

Jon watches on as Arya leads Ghost into a game, springing out from behind a tree and then another as the direwolf pretends to jump back in surprise. He tries to picture himself and Davos and Arya living in the woods. They could survive off meat that Ghost would catch and of fish that Arya would bring in from the river. They could repurpose one of the woodcutters' huts south of the woods. But what kind of life would that be - with the castle still close enough that its shadow would fall upon them whenever the sun went down?

"Let's go back," he decides.

 

 

That morning he'd waited for Daenerys to come back from her meeting with Sansa, trying to pretend that he was otherwise occupied. He had found himself a chest of weapons to inspect, and then he'd engaged into sparring sessions with a succession of Dothraki warriors - or at least, he had chosen to consider the frantic fights as sparring sessions. There is a slight possibility that two of the warriors at least had fought with the intent to draw blood.

Yara came back first, on her own. He owed it to his good reflexes that when she tried to swing a large stick at his back, he knew to pivot in time, knocking the stick out of her hands.

"Well done," Yara said as she caught her breath, hands braced upon her knees. 

"How did it go?" he'd asked. "You weren't there long."

"It was settled fast."

"That sounds surprisingly easy."

"Nobody said it was easy." 

"What came of it, then?"

"Don't you start a war on me, bastard," Yara smirked. It was almost affectionate.

"A war? What do you mean? Did Sansa bend the knee? Did you force her to..."

"Lower that sword, and keep your wolf down," Yara said, with a pointed look at Ghost and his bared teeth. "For fuck's sake. What's the tale about your parents again? Handsome Targaryen prince, plunges Westeros into chaos over a clever Stark girl? Daenerys gave her the North."

A clever way of saying, Sansa wanted the North, and Daenerys thought better than to try and hold on to it.

 

 

The snow has begun to fall again by the time Jon walks into the camp, with Arya on one side and Ghost on the other. Most of the soldiers are holed up in their tents, while the animals hide underneath sagging, snow-covered awnings.

"This way!" Arya shouts, stirring him in the direction of their tent.

Inside it they find Pod, looking a little bedraggled, as if he'd just ridden in a hurry from the castle.

"I came in," he says, quickly stepping away from the lamp where he'd been warming his hands. "I'm sorry my lord, my lady. I thought..."

"You thought it would be stupid to wait outside and freeze to death," Jon says, shaking off his cloak. "Have a seat."

"Did anything happen?" Arya asks, appropriating one of the chairs.

"Yes. No. We talked... I'm here on behalf of the Queen. She asked me to..." 

"You mean Sansa," Arya says.

"Yes."

"Is she alright?" Jon asks, because even though him and Sansa haven't been on the best of terms, it seems like a priority.

Arya rolls her eyes at him. "Really? Of course she's alright. She's got everything she wanted, right?" She turns back towards Pod. "I hope you're here with an apology. If you say 'royal pardon', maybe I'll stab you."

"Yes." Pod shakes himself. "No. I won't say it. I mean, the Queen didn't say it. She wanted me to find you, or Ser Davos. She fears Lord Baelish's envoys might have been sowing dissent in the camps."

"Which camp?" Jon asks.

"Oh, all of them," Pod says. "This one and the cold men's."

"So what, now we have to clean up her mess?" Arya asks. "We should have killed him that night," she adds, with a look in Jon's direction. "We should have killed him before we left the hall."

"We were outnumbered," Jon reminds her. 

"Like that's stopped you before."

"And what is it exactly that she expects us to do?" Jon asks Pod, once he's done frowning at Arya. "Walk around the camps and ask each group of men if they intend to revolt in the near future?"

Pod hesitates.

"It's just until tomorrow morning," he says. "After that the armies will leave." 

"If they're angry, they're not gonna stop being angry because they're on the move," Arya remarks.

"We'll have to talk them down," Jon says, thinking as he speaks. "Use harsher measures if necessary. Sansa could help. Some of them... the free folk will listen to me. She might have better traction with the cold men."

"We're not leaving anymore?"

"We are leaving. Tomorrow. I'll just have to talk to the men before that..." 

"Can I be of any assistance, my lord?" Pod asks.

"Won't she be waiting for you?" Arya says.

"Not until tomorrow morning," Pod says. "Those were the queen's orders." 

They give him puzzled looks. Then Arya shrugs.

"No one's going to hurt Sansa," she assures Jon. "Everyone loves her now, and those who're just pretending, you can be sure Littlefinger will keep an eye on them. Besides, Bran and her are in Winterfell. If something happens in the camps, they'll be fine."

"Can you fetch Davos for me?" Jon asks Pod. "Bring him back here, tell him everything. I'll try to see Daenerys before she goes to Winterfell."

"I'm coming with you," Arya says, her hand wrapped around Needle's hilt.

"I know," Jon says, and despite the urgency of the situation and the uncertainty of it all, he succeeds in giving her a strained smile.

"Beg your pardon, my lord, but there was something else," Pod calls, as Jon drapes the heavy cloak around his shoulders.

Arya must read more in Pod's embarrassed expression than Jon does, because she gathers her own cloak and says, "I'll wait outside."

Jon watches her leave, confused.

"The Queen asked me to pass on a message," Pod says. "But I... I don't know that I can."

"Tell me," Jon sighs. "I can hear it, and we can't afford to waste time."

Pod takes on a resolute expression, rather as if he were preparing to charge into battle. Then he quickly comes forward. Expecting some whispered secret, Jon doesn't think to draw back in time to avoid Pod's mouth. His eyes widen as Pod's lips touch his own. It is only by chance that he avoids tripping over his cloak.

"Seven..."

"Beg your pardon, my lord," Pod hastens to stay. "I wasn't sure whether Queen Sansa wanted me to..."

"What game is this?" Jon exclaims. "What manner of jest..."

"I don't think it was meant in jest, my lord."

"You don't think? It must have been. This is not the kind of message one entrusts to someone else, unless it's meant in jest."

"I would rather think... Desperation, maybe. My lord."

"Were there any words, to accompany this... message?"

"Only that she thought you might not accept it. The message, I mean."

"I accept it," Jon says, curtly. "You can tell her I accept it, whenever she summons you again, whatever plot she intends to carry out tonight. But it makes me a damn fool, and I know that too."

Once again Pod lingers.

"What is it?"

"I was given orders," Pod says. "Not to share more than what... what I did share."

Jon frowns.

"If you think you should go back right now," he says. "If you think I should..."

"No," Pod says, seeming to come to a decision. "I don't think that would be wise, my lord. I'll carry out your orders. I'll fetch Ser Davos."

He hurries out, leaving Jon confused and vaguely ill-at-ease, as if there had been a threat hiding in Pod's words that he'd failed to properly identify.

 

 

"If anything happens, send a messenger for me," Daenerys says. "But I doubt it will. None of the men would profit from a large-scale uprising on the night before we set for the south. You know how weary they are..."

"Weariness could lead them to do stupid things," Yara points out. "Jon will be here, though."

Jon shoots her a surprised glance. This must be the first time she's used his given name. Characteristically, she did so in an offhanded manner, as if she'd never addressed him any other way.

"Have word go out that Jon is in command while I'm away," Daenerys tells Yara. "I should have done that hours ago. I didn't think... I'm not sure I'm ready for another battle just yet."

"There won't be a battle, and you're ready," Yara assures her, in the same casual tone. Months ago, Jon would have misread it as carelessness. Now he's grown to interpret it as the Greyjoy way of expressing firmly-held beliefs.

It goes a long way towards explaining Theon's behaviour over the years. 

"You're ready," he agrees. "It's what we do."

He pointedly chooses to ignore what Davos has been telling him time and again since he vanquished the Night's King. What Tormund also told him, though in cruder terms, on the day he left for Casterly Rock.

_You're one of the living, Jon. You have to start shitting and fucking like everyone else. Make your peace with the war being over._

_Don't go starting another._

"You didn't tell them everything," Arya remarks when they leave the tent. She has remained oddly silent throughout the meeting, standing at Jon's side like a staunch little pillar, silent and brooding. "It's Littlefinger's fault."

_Don't go starting another._

"Sansa warned us," Jon says, leading her away from the tents so they can talk without being overheard.

"That's nice of her," Arya says flatly. "It's not like you can do much about it, though. Cause you could have extra rounds set up tonight and you can't know which men you can trust, so the men you send to watch over the men you think will revolt could be the men who'll revolt. It's like they're playing this big game together and you're caught in the middle. With me."

"Who's going with Daenerys to Winterfell?" he asks, suddenly. It's something about what she said. _The men you send to watch over the men you think will revolt could be the men who'll revolt._

"It's always the same," Arya says. "Two of her guard, the freed slaves? And Yara Greyjoy and some of her Ironborn. If you want... I could go. I could kill him."

Jon doesn't answer at first. He clenches and unclenches his fist, chasing a phantom ache.

He'd been about to hit Ramsay again, and he'd seen Sansa watching with her empty eyes.

And in the hall, when the tide had turned and as realization dawned on him, he'd turned towards her, expecting that same coldness, a look of disdain as if to say, _This is my revenge on you, it doesn't bring me joy, but it had to be done._ But that wasn't what he saw. She'd been afraid. He'd only ever seen her afraid once before - that night as she screamed and tried to throw herself away from the Night's King. On the night he killed the Night's King, she'd been afraid for her life, but in the hall, she'd been afraid for him.

And when he kissed her, she melted against him, a Sansa of snow very unlike the rigid, stubborn figure he's so often come up against since their return to Winterfell.

"You're not killing him," he tells Arya. "Not when there's still hundreds of his men in the castle. Not when I don't know who'd side with us."

"If Sansa would side with us."

"She would."

"You don't _know that_."

 _"I do,"_ he insists, well aware of how stubborn he sounds. "But it doesn't matter right now. They've uncrowned me and they could uncrown her or worse, if she went against the tide."

"So what you'd need to know is what the people in Winterfell think." 

"Daenerys can tell us more about that tomorrow."

"And if they attack her?"

Jon frowns. "With the dragons and her army at the doors?"

Arya hums. "I'm going to go talk to Gendry but then I'll try to help you," she says. "Don't do anything stupid."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jon asks.

He won't tell her, but there was much of Sansa in the way she said it, as if despite how much she loved him, there was no doubt that he was being a little annoying, and _of course_ she knew better than him.

"I'm thinking if I was Littlefinger I'd have you killed," Arya says. "I don't understand why he hasn't tried yet."

"Sansa," he says.

"That'd be stupid of him. He doesn't stand a chance as long as you're around."

"He did turn her against me," Jon points out.

"It's the way she looks at people who look at you," Arya says, visibly exasperated. "Like someone's going to take away her favourite doll or her wolf cub. That's what she looked like when I came back and you turned away just for a moment to pick me up. She tries to hide it most of the time. She wasn't trying to hide it when the lords rose against you. She'll only give you up the day you die. So if I was Littlefinger, I'd put ten inches of steel through your heart and be done with it."

"I'll be careful," Jon says, on the off-chance that this what she wants to hear. Arya snorts.

"No, you won't," she says. "But maybe you won't need to."

"Arya," Jon says, and in his hoarse-voiced calm there's a hint of a warning - _don't do anything stupid, either. Don't you dare._

"We're leaving tomorrow," Arya says. "So you've just got to avoid getting into a fight until then, and you should be fine. I'll see you soon."

She darts forwards, fleet-footed as ever, and before he can properly return her embrace she's out of his reach again, running off between the tents.

 _Don't worry about her_ , he tries to tell himself. _She's more than proven that she could handle herself._

Yet he can't refrain from feeling like he should have reacted faster and held her in a much stronger grip. As if this were the war again, where every gesture feels like it could be the last.

 

 

As it turns out, it is far from easy to tell an uprising from the chaos of a camp being dismantled. Every time that Jon attempts to talk to a group of men, he finds himself regretting Sansa's absence. He might be able to approach them, but his blunt honesty won't be of much use when it comes to devising their motives. Sansa would know how to get them to talk. He's seen her do it in the past - how men will start sobbing on her shoulder as she lets them clutch her hands, how they'll share sinister stories and she'll listen with compassion, only to turn away and share a look with Littlefinger once the story is over, having secured the secret she set out to obtain.

Once she'd done it for him. Two soldiers had been suspected of breaking into one of the houses in the winter town. According to the woman who lived there, they'd helped themselves to the stores, and they'd roughed up her daughter along the way. The men - Northerners, the both of them - claimed to have done no such thing. They were heroes of the war - they had slain strange, undead beasts. They had slain _White Walkers_. Every war has its pillages and it's true the small folk are always the first to suffer. Yet they had not done it. They stood in front of Jon and the girl with her bruised face and her hollow eyes and they swore they had not done it.

Sansa sought them out. She went to the camps and spoke to them and by nightfall both men had confessed. When Jon ordered their execution one of the soldiers turned towards Sansa and spat at her feet. He didn't dare speak the insult too loud but Jon heard it and Sansa must have heard it, too.

"Damn cunt and your empty promises."

Ghost had thrown the man down upon the flagstones, and for a brief moment, Jon had allowed himself to sense the stench of the man's fear, that sour smell of sweat and piss, and the frailty of the man's body, as it lay prone beneath the direwolf's paws. How easy it would have been to crush him. Ghost only would have had to shift his weight. Laws must be followed, however, if a semblance of order was to be restored. So Jon had called off the direwolf. He had drawn out his sword instead.

"Maybe he was right," Sansa told Jon afterwards. "About me being a liar."

"I wield a sword and you wield words," he'd replied. "I don't see that it makes any difference if we do it in the name of our people."

Sansa looked startled.

"I trust you," he insisted. "And if any man dares insult you again, I'll..." 

"You'll protect me?", she smiled. "The gods help the man who dares. My brother the king, the master swordsman, the White Wolf. The corpse with a beating heart."

 

 

"Peaceful thoughts, I hope."

Jon turns towards Davos and gives him a strained smile.

"Violent thoughts," he says. "They've set my heart racing. Let's go."

 

 

They speak with the Free Folk, sitting at the edge of campfires where men are vainly trying to keep their flames from being smothered by the snow. Jon shares ale with a group of disgruntled Northerners and sour red with four Dornishmen who had been hiding the bottle "for a worthy occasion". Apparently, their imminent return south and the presence of "a strange god" in their tent qualifies, and besides, as one of them points out, they'd already drunk half the bottle, months ago when the war started. "It seemed a waste to face death without first getting a taste."

Then it's fermented milk and more ale with a disorderly group of Dothraki and Ironborn. By this point Jon is starting to find it hard to focus, whether it's the smell of the milk or the scent of the tent, and it's a relief to get out again, despite the snow and the cruel bite of the cold.  
He walks with Davos to the cold men's camp. There are no fires there. There used to be, at the beginning. It must have helped the men pretend they were still as human as the soldiers in the nearby Targaryen camp. In recent days, they've given up on what must have seemed like a waste of time and timber.

"We should have noticed this sooner," Davos says, as him and Jon watch the dark stretch of field ahead of them. "The fires going out, I mean. It was a warning."

"There are so many things I should have paid better attention to," Jon says. "I tried not to be naive... about what the end of the war meant. But I was blinded all the same. Thorne was right. I'll be fighting until the day I die. And even then, some sorceress might bring me back so I can fight some more. War after war after war... I'll just be a corpse with a sword."

"You have a family..."

"Don't," Jon groans.

Turning resolutely away, he walks into the camp.

One might think the men are sleeping, but Jon has spent enough time in their company to be able to sense their presence even when they're not moving. A few of them are scattered between the tents, out in the open, with little care for the snow that has begun to cover them up.

It would be easy to interpret the heavy, draining quiet of the camp as resentment. Jon hopes that's what it is. Better to think that they're resentful than to admit that they could stand here and feel nothing.

Daenerys has given audiences to men and women who think that the cold men's camp should be burnt to the ground. They begged her to use Drogon, and to whisper the dreaded order that would cause him to release a torrent of flames upon the camp. _Don't_ , Jon had said, and she'd nodded, and they hadn't discussed it further.

"Let's talk to Lord Norrey," Jon tells Davos. He'd hoped the cold would clear his head, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. He feels as if he were swimming underwater.

Of all the mountain clans that joined in the war against the White Walkers, the Norreys have probably suffered the heaviest losses. There were no men left at the end of the war to return to the high mountains from whence the Norreys had come, north of the Wolfswood. The clan leader was killed as he fought the Night King's army on the foothills of his mountains, and his son had barely taken over his father's mantle that he was shot by an errant arrow, somewhere north of the woods. The piece of dragon glass that they shoved inside him was so long and sharp that it went out his back.

"Like a roasted pig," he'd told Jon with a laugh. "Nay, that's not it. For that you'd have had to shove it through my mouth and out my ass."

Jon has two specific reasons to meet with the Norrey. The first being that he knows roughly where to find him in the camp. The second that the young man has never been anything but loyal, to Jon and to the Starks. The memory of Ned Stark is still very much alive in the Northern clans, and Jon hopes that even after he was exposed as a Targaryen, the memory of the war will be alive enough in Brandon Norrey that he won't turn his back on him.

They do find Norrey where Jon thought he might be, at one edge of the field sitting cross-legged in the snow. He appears to be carving a piece of wood, his fingers and knife moving fast and sure despite the lack of light.

"It's the Jon," one of the cold men says to Norrey in an audible whisper.

"Lord Norrey," Jon says. He doesn't dare insult the man by asking how he's been faring of late. The strong smell of rot in the air is answer enough. "Have your men arrived at the winter town?"

The lands around Winterfell might be overpopulated for the time being, but it's a tradition that during the winter, when the game becomes nigh impossible to find high up in the mountains, the northern clansmen should be allowed to come down to the town. Jon had answered a query from one of the clans with a promise that he'd uphold the tradition. Since then, the clans have begun to send men and women to the town in troves. So much so that Jon and Sansa had discussed the possibility that they might revoke them the right, or at least send the clan envoys on their way south. They both decided against it in the end. The Starks have a duty to the mountains clan that far exceeds what they might owe Daenerys and her troops, and with the war being over, they must think of feeding their men first, and the Targaryen soldiers second.

Jon had been relieved when Daenerys announced that she was leaving. These are decisions he would rather not make - and will, most likely, never make. It will now be up to Sansa to decide who should starve to death and who should be allowed to survive a while longer.

"My men have arrived, yes," the Norrey says. "Though they won't remain my men for much longer."

"Your meaning eludes me."

"I have a son left in the mountains. A boy still. But he'll be old enough soon. Who am I to be a leader of men when I no longer remember what it feels like to be a man?"

"I understand your plight," Jon says. "But your men know you. They know you fought for them, even in this state. They might need time, but they won't stop valuing you because you can't feel the cold, or hunger, or any of what would weaken ordinary men..."

"The warmth of the sun and the taste of ale and the pleasure of a woman's flesh," Norrey says. "All of us here have no reason to go on now that the war's over. Not if we can't eat and fuck and sleep like any other man. We'd be just as well served if we built a big pyre in the middle of the field. We wouldn't even feel the flames."

"You have eyes and ears and hands," Jon says. "To many of those who died in the war, it'd be enough. It'd be better than death - or than life as a wight. Something makes us human still, and different from them."

"You're not one of us," says one of the men at the Norrey's side. "It's a whisper brought you back to life, not a blade."

"Is it dragon fire that keeps you warm, or the dragon bitch's cunt?" another one asks, in a heated whisper.

Norrey whistles softly - an intimation to stand down. The thick darkness around Jon and Davos rustles with inaudible voices.

"I understand your anger," Jon says. _I've felt it too._ But he knows that they're right and that for all that he resents having been brought back to life, he hasn't been doomed to the same kind of unfeeling nightmare as they have. "This war wouldn't have been won without you," he says. "You deserve better than to spend the Long Night staring off into the dark... Or to be put to the torch before we can know for sure that there isn't a way to make you feel warm again."

"I heard you were leaving," Norrey says. "I'll join you. I'll face the Long Night with you. My clan is sworn to the Stark in Winterfell, but as a dead man, I'm no longer bound by this pledge. My son will serve the Ned's daughter and I'll serve you. But that doesn't mean I have any faith in you finding something up in the ruins. We'll be cold men until we cease to be, and that's the end of it."

Jon lifts his hand on instinct, alerted by a shift in the air or the faintest of noises to the fact that the clan leader is reaching for him. Brandon Norrey places something in his palm and Jon bites off a glove to touch it. Dents and ridges, soft wood. It's what the Norrey had been carving when he arrived. Pointed ears, the jab of a snout with the flat of the nose fitting against the pad of his thumb. A wolf's head.

"Thank you," he says, puzzled.

"When the light comes up," the Norrey says. "Maybe the Jon can tell us if that's the head of a dragon or the head of a wolf."

 

 

Jon and Davos are walking back towards the Targaryen camp when Jon slows down his step and holds out an arm to halt Davos as well.

"Something's not right."

The sounds he'd taken to be the rumour of the camp being taken apart, finally coming back into range after the distressing quiet of the cold men's field, have taken on a new, sinister edge.

"A fight?" Davos wonders.

"Where is that?" Jon asks, trying to direct himself. "The horse lords?" 

"Ironborn."

"Seven hells," he mutters.

"Lord Snow!"

He recognises one of the men whom he'd sent to patrol the camps, with orders to report to him at the first sign of trouble - trouble that isn't the usual rough-and-tumble of a camp of several thousand warriors, that is, like the occasional slit throat over a flagon of wine or the friendly cracking of skulls that may occur once the wine has been ingested.

The man is carrying a torch and it lights up the dead camp around them, the faces of two or three cold men standing half-buried in snow with their eyes glinting in the light of the flame. The strange vision causes the soldier to pause, his torch still lifted.

"What is it?"

The man blinks. Then the urgency of the situation reasserts itself.

"You said to find you if any fight broke out, any fight out of the ordinary. It's the Ironborn and the..." He looks around him and back at Jon. "And the cold men."

"We should get some of the Free Folk," Jon tells Davos as he resumes walking, as fast as he dares with the snow falling around them, blurring the tents and the struggling fires. He casts a look at the soldier. Bear sigil. Of course. Lyanna's men are few, but he trusts them all. "What is the scale of this fight? How many men?" He tries to guess from the distant rumble. "Twenty? Forty?"

That had been the biggest row they'd had to break up in the aftermath of the war. Twenty or so drunken southerners, a good number of them former Lannister soldiers, against a group of rowdy wildlings.

"Closer to two hundred, my lord."

Jon nearly trips, lashing onto the rim of the nearest brazier for support.

"Two hundred!"

"Maybe four. It's hard to tell with the snow and the fires..."

"Davos, get as many men as you can." _And let's hope against all hope that they'll obey me and not join in the fight._ "What started this?"

They come in view of the Targaryen camp. The packing seems to have stalled completely and there are few people about, though the screams are growing nearer, and now Jon can see the orange haze of a fire, filtering through the snow.

"I don't know," Lyanna's man says. "There's been talk of a sabotage. A ship sank this morning. A fire was put out in the dead ones' camp, and they caught a man..."

"Why wasn't I made aware of this?"

"I think Queen Daenerys was warned, before she left. I only just heard about the ship from the maester... he caught me as I went to fetch you, Lord Snow. They sent a first message that never got through."

Some of the screaming is men and some of it is horses neighing as they try to escape the flames despite being tethered to a burning cart. Jon spins around uselessly as he tries to get his bearings. The dragons are screeching in the background, though too far away to pose an immediate threat, and above him trees are burning, the air smells like sulphur, like scorched flesh. The smell hasn't been so searing since the war, and to look ahead he might be tricked into thinking he's walked straight back into it, this war or another, the assault on Castle Black with the moving shadows passing in front of the flames, axes and arrows and swords and the men like charred ghosts.

It's a relief when Ghost suddenly appears out of the fiery shadows. It gives him the incentive to draw out his sword and jump into the fray, because what else it there to do but to charge these men, his own men, and yell at them to "STAND DOWN. _STAND DOWN._ " 

Some of the men who had been watching the flickering nightmare from the side-lines move in when he does, men of various armies, who at first are only concerned with parrying the wayward blows that come their way. Jon sees Ghost leap onto a burly, long-haired man in grey armour, throwing him aside as if he weighed little more than his kraken jerkin. The cold man that the Ironborn was fighting stands down immediately when faced with the direwolf, throwing aside his spear.

Jon slams the hilt of his sword in the back of a man's head. He drags another through the snow, a hand fisted around his collar, and kicks him over and pushes the man's face in the muck until his movements become jerky enough that he knows he won't fight back.

Four men down, another... Two, three, four hundred to go? He can hardly tell. There are too many men and too many trees and the smoke is making his eyes sting. How is he supposed to convince hundreds to lay down their weapons when they have no clear leader and seem well beyond reasoning? He sees a man fight with his guts trailing out and it's only as another tries to set him on fire that the first man reveals himself to be alive and not a cold man. He still brings his axe down upon his assailant, oblivious to the fact that they belong to the same camp.

Jon doubles back, retreating towards the edge of the wood. There he finds a group of men passing buckets along to try and stem the rampant course of the fire.

"Help them!" he orders another group of onlookers, and for a while it seems like there might be something at least that he can make right. The men remember this from the war, this putting out of fires, and they tackle the task with brisk efficiency, forming a chain around the edge of the fire and slowly moving inwards. The snow will do the rest.

By this point Davos has returned with some of the Free Folk. Jon sends some of them after the beasts that have become trapped in the blaze.

"Break up the fight!" he shouts to the others. Perhaps they'll be more inspired than him as to how this might be achieved.

The cold men however have begun to fall back because of the flames. A group of dead Ironborn has also arrived from the cold men's camp. To Jon's relief, they don't join in the fight, but try to appeal to the fighters. As he rushes back into the melee, he catches a glimpse of an Ironborn halting his axe an inch away from a dead comrade's face.

"The war is over," he tells another man - cold man, cold eyes - and the man bares his teeth at him and seethes, "It is, and we lost."

Jon stares at him for a second too long. Something slides under his arm. He seizes the shaft without thinking and pulls until the arrow comes loose. The tip is wet with blood. He doesn't take time to gauge the damage.

"Try getting up and the wolf will gut you," Jon tells the soldier beneath him. Casting the arrow aside, he gets to his feet.

The number of fighting men has dwindled considerably. Some must have begun to think about the aftermath, the anger of their leaders and the punishment they'll likely receive for breaking the peace. And there's the exhaustion - they are fighting in the heart of night amidst the falling snow, and though it's a hardship that they've encountered a hundred times before, they'll never grow accustomed to it. With every night that passes the sky grows darker, the air colder.

The cold men might have less to fear from the snow, but they have to keep away from the fires, and this forces them to retreat towards the Targaryen camp.

This is another battle waiting to happen, Jon understands suddenly, as he turns back and sees the group of cold men hovering at the edge of the forest. It's always easy to tell them apart from the others, for they look as if they've been thrown down and their clothes rubbed against the ice and the undergrowth. The men barring their way are bearing torches.

Jon sends more men into the forest. He sends men the other way, to stand between the torch-bearers and the cold men. Among the men he sends, he doesn't know how many will obey. How many are likely to do the opposite of his commands. Ghost streaks past him, his fur black with soot. Jon balances the sword upon his hand and tries to decide where he should go - backwards, towards the dying fire, or onwards, towards the torches and what might yet turn into a brand new blaze?

He's taken a step towards the camp when the crowd ahead of him parts, letting through an indistinct gathering of men. Men and one woman, whom he recognizes as she strides past him with an axe in hand.

"I leave you alone for _one_ night!" Yara yells at him.

And before he's had much time to either appreciate or question her presence, she lifts the axe and swings it into the skull of the nearest Ironborn. The man collapses in the snow, spraying blood onto her face and clothes. Immediately she turns round and charges another, this one twice her size.

Jon can't be sure - he's trying to fend off a cold man, a bare-chested Dothraki whose rotting skin appears greenish in the light of the fires - but he thinks he hears Yara call her adversary by name, a moment before she strikes him down.

He loses sight of her as he parries the Dothraki warrior's blows. With an upwards swing of his sword, he succeeds in forcing the cold man to retreat, until the Dothraki finally trips and falls into the muddy sleet. Ghost leaps upon the cold man's chest, and if Jon were still disposed to avoid any unnecessary casualties, he would call back the direwolf, but the fever of the fight is getting to him, and the man just tried to bury a sword in his throat. So he turns away and looks for Yara instead. He sees her standing at some distance through the trees, surrounded by a group of kneeling men.

The movement seems to be spreading, as other Ironborn bend the knee and the last of the cold men stumble out of the woods to escape the dying flames. Jon sees in snatches of colour and shapes, his eyes burning. A drifting sheet of thick grey smoke. Men kneeling, their heads bowed. A sudden cascade of dead branches and scattering embers. Charred bodies, the passing shadows of men still fighting in the background. Snatches of sound - Davos, behind him - "I've never seen such a bunch of disloyal..."- Yara, in front - "if I have to split the head of every seaman and man the fleet with my own two arms..."

Jon drops to his knees and lets Longclaw clatter down at his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ghost padding towards him. The direwolf lets him drape an arm over his back and Jon clutches his fur so he'll at least manage to keep the upper part of his body upright. Ghost nuzzles his neck and then proceeds to lick the soot from Jon's cheek with steady flicks of his tongue.

"Lord Snow, are you alright?"

Jon can't see well enough to be able to tell who's talking. One of his men, maybe.

"It's the smoke," one man shouts. "Get him away from the smoke."

"I'm fine," he says, angry at the display he's made of himself.

He drags himself up. One of the men pushes the hilt of his sword against his fingers and he closes his hand around it with a nod of thanks. He begins to hobble over to where Yara is standing, every one of his steps steadier than the last.

"... get to the bottom of this, but in the meantime you're all starting out for the ships and I don't care if you've got to walk through the darkest coldest part of the fucking night! You can start a fucking fight, you can all take a bloody walk! ALL OF YOU. I want all the captains in my tent _right now_."

She turns towards him, with the fire burning scarlet in her wild eyes and the smoke tangled in her hair. "Alright, Snow?" She gives him a light shove and then seizes the front of his jerkin. "Snow!"

"Aye," he says. Louder. " _Aye_ , I'm fine, let go of me." He pries open her gloved fingers, takes a stumbling step backwards. "I'll deal with the cold men."

"Fine. Meet me after," she calls.

By the time he walks back into the cold men's camp, with Davos and an escort of two dozen men, word has spread of the incident. The cold men are ready for his arrival. They have elected a woman to speak in their name - once a spearwife, now a cold woman, because the distinctions of clans and tribes, sea and land and north and south have to some extent been replaced by blackened limbs and glassy eyes and the smell of rot that permeates the entire camp.

Her name is Crowberry. Jon's had to deal with her in the past - not so far back as his days beyond the Wall, but they'd crossed paths during the war against the White Walkers, and after, when she came on several occasions to plead the cold men's cause at Winterfell.

After one such meeting, Sansa had said, _She's quick with her thoughts. Beware of her words._

"We didn't all of us decide to start a pointless fight," she says.

She's a tall woman, with a mass of black hair and hands bigger than his own, and markings around the eyes, a sign of some old belonging.

"What started it?"

"What starts most fights, ale and the craving for a little warmth, and we been told the Ironmen had captives of ours, and that they'd be made to work the ships through the storms on the way back."

"Do you have proof of this?" Davos asks.

"We been missing men," Crowberry says. "All sorts. Horses and krakens and wolves. Free Folk. One at a time they go."

"I know," Jon says. "We found several in the forest not a week ago. And I told you we'd put a stop to that - the ambushes, at least, because some of these men chose to go north."

When was it, he wonders, that "going North" took on such a meaning? _Going north. Heading off into the Long Night._

Way back when, in the winters of old, the mountain tribes used to call it "going hunting." Marching out and never coming back. One less mouth to feed for the clan. Old men, most of the time.

It's different with the cold men. They don't need to be fed. If they march out, it's because there seems to be no other option than the dark night - no other direction to take than that of the unknown.

"If men have been abducted, they will be freed," Jon says. "The men who took part in the assault on the Ironborn camp will report to Winterfell. If they have unspent strength, they can join the hunting parties. They can help rebuild the villages. There'll be snow storms coming. Every man and woman in the north will want shelter, even the cold ones."

"I'm not these men's queen," Crowberry says. "They don't answer to me. They chose me to speak to you, not to lord over them. Some of them won't be happy to be given orders." The wind blows aside a strand of her jet black hair, revealing the badly sewn-up gash in her temple through which death rushed in, before a point of dragon glass forced it back out.

"That's unfortunate," Jon says. "Because they can accept my terms, or they can go north. This plain has seen enough fighting and these woods have seen enough fires. I'll send the next restless man to rebuild the Wall."

"And whose orders are these that you'd have me carry?" Crowberry asks. "We all heard you were leaving, dragon lord. Was that tattle-talk, too?"

"I speak in the name of Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North and your rightful ruler, as long as you choose to remain in these lands," Jon says. "I'm leaving, aye, but it hardly matters if I do. She'll still be my queen, here or north of the broken wall."

"I'll let them know that."

Jon has an irritated gesture as if to say, _Go ahead and do it then._ He doesn't doubt that word of their conversation has already begun to travel, despite the surrounding silence.

 

 

"A night in a real bed," Yara says. "A warm room. And I've got to hightail it back here because my men can't go one day without spilling enough blood for us to row a boat across."

"What did they say?"

"That they were attacked. I'm only half buying it. I don't like the smell of this camp at the moment. We might be uphill from the cold men but it's still rotten from one end to the other. We need to pack up and leave."

"You'll be leaving tomorrow."

"Aye, and you too, if you're still set on it. It's pitiful if you ask me. Your last night here and you're spending it outside of the castle. Suits you I suppose, to stare up at the towers like they've done their best to crush you. You should have come with us."

"To Winterfell?"

Yara was in the process of putting on her cloak. She stops mid-gesture. "Aye, of course, Winterfell. Don't you deserve a night in a real bed, too? Especially now. None of us should have to charge back into another burning forest. Least of all you."

"They..."

"Yes, I know. They cast you out. Water under the bridges."

"It's been a day."

"Might as well have been ten years, the world we live in. Come back with me, then. Spend a few hours between four walls. Go find yourself a wench." She gives him a critical look. "You're the kind that mates for life, aren't you? No wench for you, then. Go sneak into your queen's bed."

"This... You..." Jon stammers, uncertain whether he should be appalled or furious.

Furious at himself, perhaps, for her last words have conjured up a vision of Sansa's rooms, of a dying fire and of her copper hair spread upon the pillow. Every muscle in his body tenses up at the thought. _A bed, sleep, Sansa._ How is he supposed to replace such tantalizing prospects with the cold and the camps and the foul-smelling tents?

"Is that blood?"

Jon follows Yara's gaze and touches his upper-arm. Blood indeed, pouring freely. His sleeve is damp all the way down to his wrist. 

"Arrow graze," he says.

"By the gods," she mutters.

She finishes tying her cloak and walks over to take a look. "Just a graze, really?"

"Yes," Jon says. His temper is about as short as hers at this point. He won't put up with any probing on her part.

Yara sighs and produces a rag that she ties around his arm. "There. At least now you won't be leaving a trail of blood when I sneak you into the castle."

"I'm not sneaking into Winterfell," Jon grumbles.

"You can't go out like this... Remove your cloak."

He's only half-aware that he's obeying her. To some extent he feels like he's back in the woods, fighting his way towards the Long Lake. Too much smoke in his throat to breathe properly. Flakes of snow getting caught in his eyelashes, turning to ice. One foot in front of the other, trying to convince himself that at the end of the night, he'll be better off than he started.

That he'll be walking home.

"How do you intend to get me in?", he asks, as he watches her shove bags off the top of a chest, with little care for how it causes pieces of armour and weapons to fall to the ground. _Someone packed these for you_ , he considers saying. He keeps a prudent silence.

"The right gate, the right men. I'm sorry to say but some of your men respond very well to bribery."

"Word will get out that I'm here."

"Eventually, yes," Yara says. By now she's opened the chest and she's throwing clothes at him. He catches them, without thinking. "But there's been a few speeches about forgiveness over dinner that make me think people have been arguing on your behalf in the castle. You could walk in there through the main gates and they'd let you. Your brother and sister said you weren't to be hurt. I still think it's a better idea to sneak in."

"I doubt that," Jon says, though he drapes Yara's cloak around his shoulders. He leaves the kraken jerkin on her cot.

He follows her outside the tent. Winterfell is visible only as a dark hulking figure under the cloudy, snowy sky, but the towers are scattered with lights and as they begin to walk towards the western gate, Jon can see these lights appear and disappear, so that after a time it becomes difficult to say if they're real. As if his longing for home had kindled a ghostly fire, somewhere up on the ledge of a distant tower. The air is so cold that it turns the snow to ice before it reaches the ground - the fur around his collar is rigid with it. Hardly a night to step out of the tents, which means, at the very least, that the fighting is unlikely to resume, back at the camp.

Yet he shouldn't be here.

He might as well be seven or eight years old, throwing down his quill and rushing off to the practice yard with Robb without warning anyone. What difference is there? He got rid of his duty, and he's off to do what he wants without telling his father or the maester - without telling Davos - because he knows he'd be told to come back immediately. _Behaviour unbefitting a future lord of Winterfell._

That's what Maester Luwin would have told Robb. To Jon, it would have been a question about the price of grain in the winter town, or, _How much grain would have been needed to avoid the Great Hunger three winters hence, and how should we have set about obtaining this grain?_ Jon wouldn't have known, his head full of the fight he'd had with Robb all the way up the stairs.

And a memory comes back to him, of Sansa sitting primly on her cushion by the window, with a piece of embroidery in her lap. Raising her pretty head, blue eyes meeting grey.

"Oh." The disappointment so blatant in her voice that he had to fight an instinct to turn around and leave. _I have as much right to be here as her_ , he'd told himself. They were young then - so very young. Not so young that he can't remember the scene well. Perhaps not the colour of her dress, but he can still see the piece of embroidery on her knees, the pale pink rose, and the downward curl of her small mouth.

"I wanted to play with Robb," she said. Then she'd straightened up on her chair, as if she'd come to a decision. "You can replace him, maybe. I'll be Jonquil and you can be my knight."

It had lasted but a moment, this game of hers. Then Maester Luwin found him and Catelyn found Sansa, and maybe Catelyn said something to her, because she never invited him to play with her again. There were always better partners besides - Robb or Theon, though the gods knew neither of them could keep a straight face and they didn't have the patience for her elaborate scenes of knightly courtship.

But on that day Jon had knelt before her beneath the tall window, and he'd taken her hand.

"You're a fool," she'd said, a girl of seven or eight whose hand fit snugly inside his palm.

"What do you want me to say?" he'd whispered.

Sansa had let out an exasperated huff.

"You have to say you're a knight. You're the greatest knight who ever lived." 

"Florian wasn't the greatest knight who..."

"Jon!"

That's how it went, or so he thinks. He could have gotten some of it wrong. It's possible that his mind filled in some of the blanks.

He trudges towards the gate behind Yara and a few other men, none of whom has taken more than a passing look at him, eager as they are to get out of the cold. If they recognised him as anything more than another bearded man wandering this dark, snowy landscape - they don't let on.

No one stops them at the gates. Jon remains at the back, behind the five other Ironborn that Yara had taken with her to the camp. He doesn't see who's in charge of guarding the door, which might be for the best.

Yara waits for him under the shadow of the battlements.

"Something has happened," she says through gritted teeth. ""They don't know what. Just now - he spoke of a commotion..."

"Where?"

"Where do you think! We thought of the camps, but of course it'd be easier to attack her here..."

She's walking fast, not bothering to look back to see if they follow.

"They wouldn't dare," one of her men says.

"I damn well left her. It was a trick, wasn't it? It was a trick to get me away." Jon doesn't reply. Daenerys isn't defenceless, he could say, except that the dragons are somewhere to the west, wherever they fly to at night when it begins to snow. The only sign that might be interpreted as Daenerys being alright is their absence. If something had happened to her, surely they would have flown in...

And as if in answer, he feels the rush of air that accompanies the dragons' landing. It sends two of the men beside him to the ground. Judging from the bulk of the beast, it must be Drogon. Jon doubts that he'll be able to control him, but he runs faster all the same, trying to think of which order Daenerys taught him that might be of use. The High Valyrian for, _There's little left of this castle to burn._

Drogon does not attack the castle, however. The dragon merely settles down in the snow, expelling a warm gust of air that melts the snow on Jon's hair.

Walking past the dragon, Jon glimpses the guest house through a heavy curtain of falling snow. There are people gathered in the courtyard, enough to make a crowd.

"Stay back," Yara shouts.

There's no telling who she's speaking to, Jon or her men or the onlookers. He sees her shove her way through the door.

Jon doesn't dare step too close to the bustling crowd, and he's making his way around it when he sees her. A flash of red hair, a tall figure standing straighter than the others.

He's barely aware that he's stepping forward. Something in him rushes to her in leaps and bounds - paws pounding upon the snow, the wind rushing over Ghost's back, snapping the tiny icicles that have formed in his fur. Ghost is miles and miles away and yet Jon can feel the remnants of a spring in his limbs and his blood thrums against his temples and his heart thrashes about -

He tears his eyes away and sees blood upon the snow. His own blood - a splattering of scarlet drops from his wounded arm, the sight of it unexpected enough that it grounds him, if for a moment.

Looking up again he finds Sansa has turned towards him, her face indistinct at this distance.

"It's alright, Daenerys is safe, _what are you doing here?"_ , a familiar voice hisses beside him.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he retorts, by force of habit. "What happened?" 

"Don't stay here," Arya snaps. "Let's get you inside, come on."

They have barely walked a few steps that Sansa falls into step beside them. She keeps her eyes straight ahead but her gloved hand brushes his elbow.

"Can anyone see us?" she asks.

"I don't know," Arya says. "There's a lot of snow. But we'll be seen if we go in. Maybe the crypts?"

"Too far," Sansa says. "There's a room in the passageway that should have a lit fire..."

"I'll go ahead and make sure it's empty. Hold him up, he's bleeding."

She rushes off and the snow swallows her lithe figure. She might as well have never been here.

"You're hurt?" Sansa asks, with sweet, sweet worry in her voice.

Her hands steal under his cloak as she feels his chest for a tear in the leather or for blood, perhaps. She's dropped one of her gloves and he'd bend down to pick it up, but a stronger impulse has him leaning forward, towards her mouth.

"Inside," she says in a quick whisper.

He's a frustrated groan away from kissing her anyways, but she grips his arm and pulls and he has to follow. The last thing he wants is to start another fight.

Besides, he's starting to see strange things - moving shapes in the white fog, ice armours and scarred faces and the wall ahead seems to undulate, as if it were a gigantic beast, preparing to slither away in the snow. Briefly he wonders how much blood he lost.

He's faintly aware of stepping out of the snow. Arya joins Sansa and between them, they stir him towards a room. A fire blazes in the hearth. The walls are old wood and damp stones and the room is stacked with weapons on one side and rugs and chairs on the other. It's one of these areas of the castle that was of much use during the war but was partly forgotten in the aftermath. The fire does seem to indicate that the room is still in use, however, and Jon wonders at its emptiness. He hopes it doesn't mean that they will be surprised by guards, or, which might be worse, that Arya hasn't dispatched said guards to ensure no one would walk in on them. He would spend more time on these considerations, but Sansa steps forward and it's much easier to open his arms to her.

She makes to withdraw almost at once but he refuses to let go, his nose nuzzling her neck before his lips find her jaw, her chin, her mouth.

She kisses him back, urgent and soft, her fingers stroking his cheek, until Arya speaks up in outrage.

"I'm still _here_!"

Jon does try to retreat then. Sansa however has found the edge of the dirty rag that Yara had tied around his arm. She grips the front of his jerkin to hold him in place as she unfastens his cloak. Then she proceeds to untie the rag.

"It's his arm," she says. "It's not very deep, but he's lost a lot of blood and it has to be cleaned... Can you tend to it? I have to go."

"Was that thing doused in cat's piss?" Arya asks, taking the rag. "It stinks. Do you need me?"

"As a look-out, yes, probably," Sansa says. "Not just now but if you can come wait close to my room... I asked Pod to be there right before dawn. Come then as well. Try not to be seen."

"What are you going to do?", Arya whispers angrily, even as she keeps a firm hold on Jon's arm, stemming the flow of blood with a rag that does not seem in any way cleaner than the previous one.

"Just be there," Sansa says. "People might start wondering where I've gone. Take care of Jon."

Arya looks about ready to protest, but she holds her tongue. With a terse exhale, she nods.

Sansa makes to step away and looks down in surprise when Jon snatches her wrist.

"If you think that I'm letting you go..."

"You will," Sansa says, freeing herself with a tug. She slants an uncertain look at Arya and then seems to make up her mind. It's a dizzying kiss and a shove and suddenly Jon's sitting in one of the wooden-backed chairs and Sansa's no longer in the room.

"We've got to talk about urgent things," Arya mutters from where she's rummaging in a chest. "So I won't say anything about this right now but I don't have to like it and I don't like it."

She returns with clean strips of cloth and a cup of what he hopes is clean water. Judging from the pungent smell, it's unlikely.

"I'm cleaning this and then I'll go up there."

"Go now," Jon says.

The number of swords against the wall keeps changing. Whenever she looks up at him, her dark eyes seem far too large for her face.

"I'll go when she said. If she's planning something and I just barge in... And dawn will be here soon. What happened out there?"

"The cold men and the Ironborn."

"It was the same here." She dabs water at the wound, lifts the rag and swears softly between her teeth. She feels along the edge of a leather plate until she's found the tear. Her fingers slide underneath it easily. She withdraws them covered in blood. "You'll have to take that off too. Did it get caught between your arm and your side? You could have told me!"

"I had... I had other things in mind," he says. He bends forward to the best of his ability but when he tries to help she bats his hands away. In the end it's Arya who removes the jerkin, his little sister with the nimble fingers, and he just submits to her pulling and tugging until he can collapse, relieved and hopelessly dizzy, against the chair.

"That's better," Arya declares. "I found a bottle. I don't know what's in it, but it should work... So I decided to look after Daenerys, because I thought if he tries something before she leaves it'll be tonight. And I was standing next to the guest house..." She pours a generous measure of alcohol onto her piece of fabric. "... and I saw two men running for her window. But it'd started snowing so I only saw them late, when they were nearly at the wall..."

She slaps the rag against his arm and Jon hisses at the sharp burn of it, raising a hand to push it away, but Arya catches his wrist and lowers his hand without much effort.

"I know what you're thinking," she says. "What're you going to do? Faint at Littlefinger's feet and then she'll have to obey him because he's got a knife at your throat? And I can't fight off all his knights at once and I'm not sure who's on our side in the castle... If you'd let me finish I could tell you about that. Stop moving."

 _To be brought down by a scratch_ , he thinks, though he knows this isn't quite true. One would also have to take into account the harrowing fight - evading blows while trying not to kill his assailants - and the strain of the past few days and months and years, and the blow of losing the north, no matter how much he'd insisted he did not it.

"What happened out there?" he asks, snatching the bottle from her hand and taking a swig. Whatever it is, it's disgusting, and it plays its part. He grimaces and shakes his head and sits a little straighter upon his chair. "You saw two men outside the guest house?"

"They smelled like cold men. I was standing next to a brazier so I picked up a brand and came closer, and one of them attacked me. I think it was a Northerner... I'm not sure. By the time I'd taken care of him the other had climbed up the wall, so I went after him. I didn't take another brand because I thought there'd be fire in Daenerys' room, but when I climbed through the window it was all dark. She must have heard him come in. It was lucky, otherwise he could just have slit her throat right where she slept. I helped her and we pushed him out the window... And a guard must have seen the other one burning because they were waiting for him down there and they torched him too."

"Torched him," Jon repeats. Arya has cleaned and bandaged his arm and has moved on to the gash along his side. "Couldn't he be caught and questioned?"

"That's what Daenerys asked them afterwards. They said her safety was a priority. Something wasn't right with the Ironborn, either, because she said she'd been trying to get out of the room before I came in - because the fire had died out and something felt wrong, and the door was blocked and no one would answer her."

"You think they were all involved. The Ironborn, the cold men and even our own guard."

"I think it's hard to tell," Arya says. She lifts the hem of his shirt. "Hold this up for me." She unrolls another strip of cloth. "It could be one man or it could be ten? It could be just the man guarding Daenerys's door or the whole garrison in the guest house, and maybe Sansa's men just followed their orders and did their patrol... Daenerys said she'd treat it as an isolated grudge and no one should go after the cold men. And Yara'll have to deal with her own men. But it sounds like something they could have done, right? If they wanted to get rid of Daenerys. Wait for the cold men to kill her while she's under Sansa's protection."

Jon feels drunk and exhausted and certainly not in the mood to parse out the intersecting motives of every faction he's come up against in the span of a single night.

Still, he says, "Daenerys is flying home tomorrow. If I were an impatient man in want of a crown, I'd make sure to kill her before that. And if I had an ounce of cunning, I'd make sure the trail leads in every direction but my own." 

"Well it's a good thing if it's him," Arya says, as she lowers his shirt over his bandaged ribs. "He dies and maybe things will settle down."

"The damage is done. The men distrust each other so much that they'll start fights by the hundred in the middle of the night."

"It mustn't have been easy, though, to get them to fight," Arya says. "A lot harder than it would be to turn them round, probably. That'll be Sansa's work, anyways. She's good at that. The smiling and the making them want to die for her. It worked on you, didn't it?"

 _Rather like the opposite_ , he thinks. _I wanted to die before she came back._ He won't admit it out loud, however, so he merely scowls.

"Well. I'll go be her look-out," Arya says. "You'll be fine here on your own?" 

"I'll be fine."

She goes as far as the door before she turns around again. Her face is no longer her face - older, with pale eyes and gaunt cheeks, and pale eyebrows that give her a look of being always startled. She looks like a small, angry owl.

"Don't do anything stupid," she says, for the second time that night.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jon says, as he had the previous time. 

"You'd be an easy kill, the state you're in, and there's still a bunch of people in this castle who'd be happy to do it. Lock the door behind me."

He does what he's told, albeit with some reluctance. 

_You can trust them,_ he tells himself. _You can trust them both, and Daenerys and Yara, too._

 _I'll just sit for a moment, until the room stops spinning, and then I'll..._

Dragons and white walkers and Ygritte's arrows and half a dozen knife blows. And all it takes is this - an arrow point sliding along his ribs, unless it's the heat of the room after the heart-stopping cold - or an effect of Sansa's kiss, like the spells in her beloved stories. _At a touch of his fair lady's lips, the knight was robbed of his strength, and fell down, asleep, at her feet._


	10. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do something_ , she wants to implore this fierce, hungry Jon, who clutches her hand as if he might leave the imprint of his battle scars upon her palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track of choice for Jon and Sansa in this story remains [track 16](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmPZbyYmndc) of the 2015 "Macbeth" soundtrack.
> 
> The first time around, I'd finished this story right in time for season 7. How time flies...

She had made sure that the corridors would be empty. Her will was carried out by the intermediaries of intermediaries, and not as orders, stern and irrefutable, but as suggestions. Bribes that weren't quite bribes - a bottle left open or a warm fire in an empty room or a glimpse of a luridly-coloured skirt, disappearing around a corridor. Petyr's own techniques, used against him. Petyr's own girls, used against him.

It should be a perfect plan precisely because it isn't much of a plan. This was the conclusion she came to, as she tried to think of a way to defeat him that wouldn't take her down alongside him. A tightly-woven scheme he might expect - she has to be unpredictable, and the only way to do so, is to ensure that she doesn't know herself how the night will unfold.

Would that she could keep her thoughts on Petyr alone. Unfortunately, they seem set to wander.

Dead men dying, Arya and Jon appearing in the middle of the courtyard.

Jon leaving a bloody imprint upon her dress.

She quickens her step as she rounds another corner, coming in view of the stairs that lead to her room. What if Petyr's gone? What if he never came? Did he orchestrate the fight in the camps, did he have a hand in the attempt against Daenerys's life, and if so, had he predicted the outcome of both assaults?

She can't conceive of him being caught unawares. Certainly, she might have seen him pretend to be surprised, once or twice, but it was never genuine - and it's difficult to think that she could have it in her to outsmart him. Their minds are too similar. What cunning she possesses she's developed by watching him, and how could that ever be enough? Unless his desires get the better of him.

This alone perhaps, she might rely on. The right brand will melt the hardest ice. She should know. Every step that carries her away from the room where she left Arya and Jon seems to drive a hook deeper inside her chest. She'd tug it out if she could. What she needs above all else at present is a clear head, and her head won't be clear as long as her thoughts keep circling back to that first glimpse of Jon in the snow, like some vivid vision brought forth by her feverish mind.

_I should have cleaned these wounds myself. What if there were stitches to be made? Arya's never been much good at sewing._

And so it is that when she reaches her door, she is far from being as cold and resolute as she'd intended. On the contrary, she feels vulnerable, as if she had received a debilitating blow.

 _I will not walk out of this room unscathed_ , she understands.

Whether Petyr knows it or not - and how could he not know it? - he is already at an advantage. He would only have to say the word, and they'd fall upon Jon like carrion birds upon a bleeding beast.

Sansa opens the door without giving herself time to hesitate. The knife Nin gave her is a warm weight against her side.

"I thought you wouldn't come," Petyr says.

"Did you try to have Daenerys killed?"

Petyr laughs, short and brittle. "Yes. I would have been in trouble if they had succeeded, mind you, but it was worth a try."

"In trouble how?"

The talking has eased her nerves enough that she steps further into the room. Trying not to pay too much attention to the way his eyes follow her, she goes to sit on the bed.

"My men lack experience when it comes to slaying dragons. It represented a certain leap of faith to trust that your cousin would be able to control the beasts in the event of Daenerys's death, and that the dragons could be killed, if it came to that."

"Jon was wounded during the fight at the camps," Sansa says. This he must know, and however much he knows, he will expect her to be aware of it as well. "He might not have been able to step in."

Petyr gives her a considering look. "Let us be grateful that he did not have to, then. Or is that the wrong thing to say... How about, I did not mean for him to be hurt."

"It would be impossible to keep a man like Jon away from danger."

"Yes," Petyr agrees, stepping forward. "And so you have to trust that he'll be dangerous enough to defeat danger itself."

"Are you?"

"Oh, my dear, I don't have Jon's tendency to breathe in danger like the very air around me. Which is lucky," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, "because I don't have his ability to eschew death, either."

"You're dangerous all the same," she says, extending her foot slightly.

She meant it as an overture and yet she can't help jumping in surprise when his hand closes around her ankle.

"You didn't change your mind," he says, with a thin smile.

Sansa shakes her head.

He comes closer, keeping to the edge of the bed. Seizing the waterlogged hem of her dress, he throws it back over her knees.

"There's no need to be nervous," he says, taking in the sight of her, the flushed cheeks and the wide eyes, the heaving chest and what he can see of her legs, their slender lines hidden beneath her woolen hose. "About us... lying together." His hand slides up her leg. "Take these off."

She obeys, lifting her hips and pushing the hose down her thighs. Petyr drags it down the rest of the way and tosses it aside. Leaning forward, he kisses the side of her knee.

"I've longed for a glimpse of you. It is the glimpses, you know, that are the most satisfying - the rest will almost always turn out to be disappointing, in the long run..."

He climbs upon the bed and lifting her skirts up further, bunching them around her waist, he settles between her legs, his chest pressing her down against the featherbed.

Sansa runs her fingers through the grey-brown strands over his temple. Her other hand ventures under her belt, searching for the dagger's hilt. If she could draw it out... If she could draw it out now, while his hands are otherwise occupied. She submits to his kisses and to his caresses. She parts her lips and forces herself to keep still as he touches her, though she would have thought he would be gentler. The firm decisiveness with which his hands roam over her legs is unsettling. Either he has given up on the game he's been playing for the past years, or he has changed the rules without warning her.

Her fingers creep down his back, sliding over the silver embroidery of his dark surcoat. She's pulled the knife out far enough that she can wrap her hand around the hilt.

"I hope you enjoyed your own stolen moments," he whispers against her ear, stroking back a lock of red hair. "The rest would have disappointed you, believe me. He would have disappointed you."

Perhaps it was unwise to choose this precise moment to pull out the knife. Maybe it's what gave her away, or maybe he already knew. Be that as it may, he grips her wrist before she can raise her hand. She flattens herself against the pillow, trying to escape the blade that has settled against her neck.

"You smell like smoke," he says, "you taste like smoke. I wonder why that is?"

With a vicious tug, he forces her to let go of the knife.

When she tries to move, she feels the blade of his dagger cutting into her neck. It must be sharp, for he isn't quite pressing down on it. In fact, he is careful not to hold her too tight, and the weight has loosened upon her chest and legs. It's the one indication he gives her that this might still be a game to him. A cat toying with a bird. His voice however is harsher than she's ever heard it.

"I almost had him killed, just out of spite. With your sister watching over him, however..."

Sansa remains motionless. All it would take is a flick of his wrist. She would bleed out much like her mother had - the irony mustn't be lost on him.

Despite her fear, she's relieved that the mask has fallen, and perhaps slightly satisfied of how much it must rankle, to trade a girl who moaned and writhed under him against this cold, remorseless statue.

"You thought you would do this yourself, didn't you?" he says. "You would have saved yourself much trouble if you'd accepted someone else's help."

"You could have done the same," she notes, the blade jolting against her neck as she speaks. "And yet, here you are."

"Do you know what they'll say?" he asks, with a cold smile. "When they find you in a pool of your own blood, bare legs spread upon the bed... 'This is what happens, when wolves bed wolves.' Don't move," he warns her, when that last comment has her strain against his grip. "I'm ready to bet they won't give him a chance to explain himself. You've spun your web well, my dear. There is hardly a sword in this castle that wouldn't spill blood for you. Why, why would you be so careless after so many months of..."

"I was told you read my letters."

"Of all things," he mutters. "This is what made you angry enough that you would try to kill me? Oh, I'd thought to use them against him, these letters of yours. Should he happen to mention something even remotely indecent... For a while I even thought you wanted me to read them. Why else would you be using one of my men? But the letters were tame and mawkish and at last it dawned on me that I wasn't doing it as a means to an end but out of petty jealousy... I suppose I should be grateful. They kept us alive, these letters, didn't they? If he'd gotten himself killed, the whole army would have fallen apart before we even saw the tail of a dragon."

All that matters, she tells herself, is that he hasn't killed her yet. There must be a reason for that - and the more he talks, fast and grating and desperate, the clearer the answer becomes. If there was a plan, he's discarded it along the way. He won't be satisfied until he sees her break.

"If you read them," she says. "You must have known. You must have known a long time ago that I..."

"That you would turn against me? It occurred to me far more recently than it should have... It is true that the letters told me that my original plan would never come to pass. I meant for him to stay here, you see. Rule over the North while we took the South... It would have been so easy. Get rid of Daenerys and use Jon to claim her army. Oh, part of that plan could still have worked out."

"How did you get the cold men past the wards?"

"Through the crypts. These wards you speak of... They only run skin-deep. While they might not have passed the gates, they came easily through the tunnels. And do you know why they did? Tell me, what do cold men want?"

She has to swallow past her fear and restlessness to answer. He might have shifted his weight but it doesn't make much of a difference. His presence above her, the contact of his lower body with her legs fills her with far more terror than the blade against her throat.

"Warmth."

"Maybe, but this they can't obtain. Look at it this way: if I wanted to get something from you, how should I go about obtaining it? Sometime ago, I would have used your desperation to live... Now however..."

"Jon," she says.

"Yes. Family. Friends. This is how you buy a cold man. Some of them can't stand this second life they've been given. The rot, the cold. Tell them that by killing the Dragon Queen they'll gain enough money to provide for their kin throughout the winter... And that they might be killed in the process."

"If Daenerys had been killed in Winterfell, her army would have turned against me."

"We would have blamed the Greyjoys. A backstabbing lot, always rebelling at the worst possible time... The ideal foe. I made sure the Ironborn were involved. They thought they were doing it for their queen. Casting off the southern yolk... And yet even if all my schemes had succeeded, you would have turned against me. I know that now."

With the back of his hand, he knocks her dagger off the bed.

"When you turned and smiled at me... When they were asking you about Lysa. How I loved you then. She's as manipulative as me, I thought. She isn't as principled as Cat..."

"It's always been about her, wasn't it?" Sansa asks, and she contracts her neck slightly, just enough to draw his attention back to the dagger. "You want me to die like she did."

Petyr shudders. His hand jerks upon the knife and she feels a trickle of blood running down her neck. Immediately, he lifts the blade slightly so it won't be in direct contact with her skin.

"You know I loved your mother and if I could have spared her this gruesome death, I would have. You..." He gives her a mirthless smile. "You were going to kill me."

If they were having this conversation under any other circumstances, Sansa might have remarked that if Catelyn Stark had been made aware of the extent of his machinations, she might have tried to kill him, too.

 _Needlework_ , she reminds herself. _You were ready for this._

"If you're going to kill me, the least you could do is use your own hands," she says.

She can see him give it some thought. The allusion to her mother has found its mark, and perhaps it appeals to his frustrations.

With a huff of annoyance he throws away the dagger. His hands close upon her neck.

He might have intended to say something. Indeed this is the last image she will have of him, thin lips parted on an unspoken word as she slashes the sharp needle across his throat. He reaches for his neck and she seizes the occasion to dive under his arm, extending her hand towards Nin's dagger. With one hand still clutching his bleeding throat, Petyr grabs her by the hair and she swings around wildly, slashing the dagger across his fingers and then across the exposed wound.  
Blood splatters her face and hands and the front of her dress. Petyr falls back against the bed.

Sansa stares down at him, breathing hard and with the dagger still clutched in her hand.

It should be over - by all means it should be over. There is a dead man in her bed, however, and the dagger is covered in blood. First she wraps the dagger in a piece of cloth, and then she searches for the needle among the furs on the bed - in order to do so she has to lift Petyr's shoulder and she does so with trembling hands, half-expecting him to seize her wrist. Once she's found the needle, she wipes it on her stained dress and returns it to its hiding place, along the lining of her pillow. She had placed it there earlier in the evening, in case Nin should fail to produce the dagger.

She casts another long look at the body and then looks down at her blood-stained hands. Slowly she moves over to the pitcher in the corner and pours water inside the small basin. Her distorted reflection appears at the surface, and it is this at last that spurs her into action, this sight of blood on her chin and nose and cheeks. She scrubs her face and her hands up to her wrists and once she's done, she wipes her hands on her dress and removes it, thankful for the unendurable nights of the war, and how they have taught her to care for herself - to work past her unkempt tangle of hair and the disorder of her laces to put on an appearance of calm elegance.

The snow continues to fall outside the window. It makes it impossible to tell if the dawn is near or perhaps already gone. Sansa remains against the windowsill for a moment, waiting for the beating of her heart to quiet down.

Of all the things he said, rambling on and on as the blade threatened to slice her throat open, there is only one taunt that won't stop running in circles around her head. _This is what happens when wolves bed wolves._ Bloody furs and her heart slamming against her ribs. She would run down to Jon, but it's the body holding her back. That, and a stranger sort of reluctance as well.

 _He didn't reject you after Ramsay - he didn't reject you after you sat by and watched as the lords rose against him. Why would he now?_  
And yet her mind won't be reasoned with. The only thing to do is to move on.

She goes to stand against the door, listening carefully for any sound in the corridor beyond. Hearing none, she opens it a sliver and looks out.  
There is a girl further up in the corridor; she turns around when Sansa opens the door. She recognizes Arya, though for the briefest of moments, she could have sworn it was someone else.

Arya promptly joins her by the door.

"Pod is keeping watch at the top of the stairs," she says. "But there's no one around."

"Jon?"

"Sleeping. I locked the door. What do you need me for?"

Wordlessly, Sansa stands aside. Arya's eyes widen.

"We can't leave him here," she says.

"I know."

Arya goes around the bed to get a closer look.

"I suppose we could feed him to the beasts," she says. "The dogs or the horses. They haven't had much to eat of late."

Sansa suppresses a shudder and then wonders at her shock when it relates to a man whom she's just gruesomely murdered.

"Then we would have to account for his disappearance," she says. "I was thinking... If we leave his body in the courtyard, and the knife nearby... As if the murderer had dropped it in the snow, and couldn't find it. It's a soldier's knife, but it belongs to a dead man." She pulls back the cloth and shows to Arya the intricate carvings on the hilt. The outline of a dog and a pine cone, the branches of a pine tree. "It's been passed around and around in the gambling dens. It'll be hard... impossible even, to say who had it last. But everyone will know that's where it came from."

"From someone who wasn't happy with Littlefinger. Hmm. It could work. It's not as if anyone is going to come out and speak in his favour."

"That's what I thought," Sansa says, relieved to see her plan so easily approved. "It won't be in the Vale's interest to try and find out what happened. Not when it involves gambling dens and a clandestine brothel."

"Then I'll get Pod," Arya says. "He can carry the body. I'll make sure no one sees him."

"I'll help," Sansa says.

Arya stares at her. "You can't help. You're the _Queen._ It shouldn't even have been you who killed him!"

"It had to be me," Sansa hisses. "After everything... I needed to see his face. You should be able to understand that."

"I do," Arya says. "It's still stupid. And wanting to carry..."

"The only reason I'm getting you involved is because Pod and you are the only people I can trust with this! I can't very well tell Lyanna Mormont or... or Meera, that I slit a man's throat while he..."

"Wrong examples," Arya says. "I don't think they'd care that much, really..."

"I'm not staying here while you go out alone. I couldn't forgive myself."

Arya takes on an expression of supreme disdain that reminds Sansa, eerily, of Yara Greyjoy.

"Maybe we should start moving that corpse before your trick stops working and the guards and the servants come back. You're staying here." Arya goes as far as the door before turning back. She seems to hesitate. "Nobody will catch me," she says. "And if they did, they wouldn't know it's  
me."

Before Sansa can ask what she means, she's turned away and back. Sansa takes a staggering step back.

"It's me," says the girl who isn't Arya, though she has Arya's voice.

Again she turns away from Sansa, and when she turns back, she's Arya again, all stubborn chin and large brown eyes.

"I'd think you'd have seen stranger things by now," Arya says. "I was going to show you... Someday. I was going to. But if it has to be now... I'll go get Pod."

Sansa remains rooted on the spot. Arya had told them that she had trained as a faceless assassin in Braavos, but to Sansa, the "faceless" component of the name had to do with stealth. A capacity to go undetected. And though Arya is right and she has seen strange things, dragons and dead men, it is still unsettling to know that yet another one of her siblings has been so thoroughly transformed by their time apart that she can't be certain they'll ever be able to fully understand each other again.

Though a case could be made that she never did understand Arya, anyways. It seems this is just another thing that she will have to take in stride, and as Arya returns to the room with Pod behind her, Sansa has to face the fact that a dead body goes a long way towards forcing one to accept uncomfortable truths.

"It seemed safer to draw him here," she tells Pod a little hurriedly, stepping forward as if she might shield Petyr's body from him. "I thought he'd lower his guard... I didn't... I didn't lie well enough."

"I just wish I could have helped you, your Grace," Pod says. "I hope you know that I..."

"We're just wasting time," Arya interrupts. "Is this his cloak? We'll put it around him. I'll take the knife."

She goes to lift the cloak from the chair where Petyr had put it down.

"Can you carry him on your own?" she asks Pod.

"Yes, my lady."

"Good. I'll go ahead." She turns towards Sansa. "We won't come back here afterwards, it's safer that way. You'll have to burn all the blood-stained furs."

They won't let Sansa lend a hand when they spread out the cloak on the bed and place the body inside it. The only occasion to step in comes when Pod tries to hoist the body onto his back and Arya's arms aren't long enough to properly shift the weight across his shoulders.

"Here, let me," Sansa says. She holds onto the bloody cloak with both hands as Pod straightens up. Meanwhile Arya slips out the door.

"Thank you," Sansa says, briefly clutching Pod's hand. She could promise him gold and a knighthood and shelter from the winter winds. It wouldn't be enough.

So all she adds is, "I'm sorry."

"There's no reason to be, your Grace," Pod answers, and whether he's right or wrong, he believes what he says, and it is all that matters.

 

 

 

 

She waits by her window in tense confusion. If they were to be caught...

The snow continues to fall, at least, and a strong wind has risen, blowing from the north. The castle might begin to stir soon, but by the time anyone dares to venture outside, the body will be buried in snow.

Soon Daenerys will leave, and Winterfell will become a strange chamber of echoes. Though the castle will be more sparsely populated than during the war, its inhabitants will continue to live in close quarters.

_Certainly Jon won't leave now. He'll have changed his mind. And even if he hasn't, he must needs rest a while._

Perhaps it might be wise to sleep a few hours, until someone comes to raise her. Part of Daenerys' army will have left already - those who must sail away wanted to be gone before the first light, but the Queen herself will ride one of her dragons to return south. She intends to watch the last of her troops depart before she takes off herself.

Sansa walks towards the bed as if in a dream, and it is as she prepares to lie upon it that she remembers the scene that so recently took place upon the bloody furs. With quick, nervous gestures, she tears off the stained furs and rugs and pushes them under the bed. She's not quite done when she thinks she hears a faint knock upon the door.

She goes still, her arms still wrapped around a bearskin.

The tapping resumes. Then the door creaks as it is pushed open. Sansa drops the fur at her feet, ready to scold whomever would dare to...

She stares at the pale silhouette in the doorframe. Jon stares back, holding his wounded arm. He isn't wearing any armour. Merely his shirt, tucked into his swordbelt.

"If this is a bad idea," he begins. He doesn't seem particularly inclined to continue.

"Yes," Sansa says, trying to hold back her nervous smile. "Yes it is, but it doesn't matter."

"Arya said..."

"So they did it?"

Jon closes the door before he answers, "Yes."

He looks hesitantly around him, at the fire and the window and the chests of clothes. Anywhere but at the bed. _How much did Arya tell him?_

"How do you feel?" Sansa asks, looking at his arm, though his attention is elsewhere and when he answers, it's slightly off the mark.

"As if I could lie down and sleep for years," he says, with a short, unexpected laugh.

Sansa moves forward, jerkily, as if someone had pushed her in the back. "Can't you?" she asks. "Can't you lie down ?"

Jon's eyes come to rest on her face, dark and bright all at once. She feels a shiver course down her spine.

"There'll be talk."

_This is what happens when..._

"You deserve to rest. We both..."

Reaching for the fastenings of her dress, she loosens the ties. She expects a prompt rebuke, a stern, "Sansa."

Yet Jon doesn't speak. He merely watches, somewhat guardedly, from the door.

She lets the dress fall at her feet. Jon's eyes travel from her face to her throat, from the neckline of her shift to the outline of her breasts, faintly visible through the pale linen. He stops at her hands and she follows his gaze, feeling her throat clench. On her wrist there remains a trail of blood leading under her sleeve, red and dark and unmistakable.

"I'll wash it off," she hurries to say, but his voice halts her halfway to the basin.

"Do you really think I care?"

One-handed, he unties his belt and scabbard and sets it down by the door. "I just want... Do you think we could sleep? Until the next conspiracy..."

"When the snow clears, they'll find him," Sansa says. "And after what happened tonight... I need to rebuild trust with our people. I need to visit the cold men."

"Until the snow clears," Jon amends. "Can we lie down until the snow clears?"

She nods.

"If this were to be the aftermath of every battle," she whispers, as they settle against each other on the bed and she tucks herself under his arm.

"Are you alright?" Jon asks, and it is just like that night after the war, when she'd pretended to be too tired to think. When she'd pulled him by the hand, all the way to her room, and he'd followed her, tripping over his own feet, with a smile of resignation.

"Yes," she says, rubbing her nose against his shirt and breathing in that smell of woodsmoke and damp and blood and sweat that she came to associate with him during the war. She heaves a contented sigh.

"Your hands are shaking," Jon whispers.

His hand is shaking, too, in a far more jittery way, but she chooses not to comment upon it. Should he be running a fever, she'll do what she must - place a cool piece of cloth upon his brow, and fetch the maester.

But it'd feel like the final blow of the axe to a partially-severed trunk.

"I wanted my life to be all silk and songs," she murmurs, intertwining their fingers. "I would have been so happy."

"A song," Jon says in a faraway voice. "Pretty ladies and gallant knights."

"I should have known," she mumbles. "I've seen enough to know you cannot be queen without getting your hands dirty... I wonder what songs they'll sing about me."

"I've heard a few," Jon says. "Haven't you? During the war... during the war there were many."

"I haven't heard them. Some of them are bound to be bawdy... Can you teach me one?"

Jon huffs, his chest jolting beneath her cheek. "You want me to sing? I don't know any to the end."

"Yes, yes I'll have you sing." The idea hadn't occurred to her, but she isn't about to let such an opportunity pass her by. "The one you remember the most. What is it called?"

"The Lady Wolf."

"The Lady Wolf? Does it have a happy ending?"

"I don't remember the ending." He sighs, but then he does begin to sing, in a low rumble. _Where is the captive of the keep, where is the lady wolf, my lord?_ It's the first time she's ever heard him sing, she realizes. Robb's voice she remembers, though mingled with the voices of others during loud dinners, when a nobleman's son drank too much and led the low tables into a chaotic rendition of the Bear and the Maiden Fair. That was generally when Catelyn excused her daughters and their septa took them (or dragged them, in Arya's case) to bed. But Jon was too far away on such occasions, that is, if he even did sing.

His voice isn't unpleasant, though he's not putting much effort into it, and it sounds rather as if he were telling her a story.

 _She took to sea my lad, the lady wolf, I've heard it said she swam and roared..._  
_Where goes the lady of the Vale, where goes the lady wolf my lord?_  
_She's off to war my lad, the lady wolf, to slay the bastard and his horde._  
_Where is the princess in the north, where is the lady wolf my lord?_  
_She roams the woods my lad, the lady wolf, to light the air with her fiery hair, and raise a king from his icy lair..._

He stops. Sansa shakes her head slightly, trying to rid herself of a pleasant torpor.

"It goes on," Jon says. "I don't remember the end."

" _Where is the queen of Winterfell,_ " Sansa sings in a soft voice - and oh, it feels like shaking herself free of a thick coat of snow. " _Where is the Lady Stark my lord? She has gone home my lad, the Lady Snow, her name you'll hear no more_."

For a long time, Jon says nothing. His hand has gone still inside hers. Then he says, "You knew it, then."

"I knew it, and you knew how it ended," Sansa remarks sweetly.

"They'll write new ones," Jon says.

"About the Lady Snow?"

"About Queen Sansa Stark, who held a castle through the war against the White Walkers and who faced the Night's King and lived to tell the tale. Who treated with Daenerys Targaryen to ensure the independence of the north..."

Sansa thinks of the body in the yard and of the blood-stained dress that she's bundled and stuffed behind a chest.

_Queen Sansa Stark who lured one of her allies into her bed so she could slit his throat._

She looks down at her hand to find Jon rubbing at the stain on the inside of her wrist, as if he knew her thoughts. He lets go of her hand to lick the tip of his fingers and returns to wiping the line of blood.

"It's done," he says. "It had to be done, one way or another, and whatever comes of it, we'll face it together. You should sleep."

Sansa sighs. "You'll stay, then."

"If it doesn't cause another uprising..."

"It won't," she says decisively.

Lyanna will have convinced some, and for the others, she'll set herself the task of changing their minds, one stubborn Northerner at a time.

And the same goes of the knights of the Vale, even if she has to personally visit the Eyrie to convince Robin Arryn that he should not seek retribution for his protector's death.

"Then I'll stay," Jon mumbles, long after she's done waiting for an answer. She reaches up to touch his forehead.

"What are you doing?"

"Earlier, I thought you'd faint. I'm not going to sleep if..."

"I spent the night outside drinking and fighting," Jon says. "The fire and what little sleep I got did me good. I won't die on you and I won't leave... Get some rest."

It seems pointless when there is enough light pouring in that she can tell the day is up, and that whatever peace they've enjoyed is bound to be shattered at a moment's notice. And yet she goes under almost as soon as she closes her eyes, lulled to sleep by the steady beating of his heart against her cheek.

Perhaps she dreams it - Jon stirring against her and whispering into her hair, "Snow storm."

She mumbles a question.

"Ghost can feel it," Jon says.

Then the dream turns strange.

The woods shudder and the winds blow. They cast netfuls of snow upon her back (russet-coloured, fox), and she can taste the fresh wintry air upon her tongue (tiny mouth and scrabbling paws, mouse) - and yet as far as she runs she can't outpace and the storm - for that she would need longer legs, a direwolf's endurance and strength...

She's jolted awake by a knock on the door. The fabric under her cheek is damp. She reaches up to wipe her cheek. Jon's arm tightens around her.

"Don't go," he mutters.

"Daenerys," she reminds him, though what she means is, _Littlefinger, Littlefinger's body._

Jon sighs.

Sansa finds the maester on the threshold, come to warn them of the army's departure. She suspects that Arya must have sent him. Once she's put on a clean dress, she lets him in to inspect Jon's wounds.

Maester Torren chooses not to comment upon the fact that Jon has appeared overnight, or that he is reclining upon Sansa's pillows. He sets straight to work cutting off Jon's shirt and the only question he asks is, "Was it an arrow?"

Sansa remains standing by the fire, until the maester turns to tell her, gruffly, "Lord Snow's life isn't in any danger."

"I'll... I'll be in the courtyard, then," Sansa stammers, and it's only once she's left that it occurs to her.

_Lord Snow._

There might not be a single person in the castle at present who knows what to call Jon, and that probably includes Jon himself.

 

 

 

 

In the yard, the snow has begun to fall anew, but Daenerys is resolved to leave in spite of, or perhaps, because of it.

"I am told there's a snow storm coming," she says, when Sansa joins her.

Lyanna Mormont is already there. The nod that she gives Sansa could be a polite welcome or a dry reproach for her lateness.

"Maester Torren just told me, yes," Sansa confirms, though the maester hasn't said anything of the sort. The lie has sprung fully-formed to her lips, far more straight-forward than the truth. _Ghost told Jon. Jon told me. Years ago, perhaps I wouldn't have needed him to. Perhaps I am as strange as they are, Jon and Arya and Bran, but rather like a tree whose growth has been stunted. How good I would look in a southern garden. A perfect little shrub._

"I wish to apologise again for what happened during the night," she says. "I'm deeply grateful that you decided not to hold the cold people accountable for the rash actions of two desperate men..."

"You will have to do something about them," Daenerys says, pulling up the hood of her heavy cloak. "The cold ones. They might seem to resist the cold, but really it's merely that they do not die as fast as we do."

"Leave them in the open and you'll have to dig them out, one by one."

Yara has aged another five or ten years since Sansa last saw her, when she was striding grim-faced towards the guest house, her sword halfway out of its sheath. Sansa feels a sudden, unexpected stab of pity for the Ironborn queen. She used to think that Daenerys and Yara were the same: ruthless and ready to sacrifice everything in the name of a crown they believed was their due.

The previous night has taught her that this isn't the case. Yara would have clawed her way into the guest house and she would have died before she resigned herself to losing Daenerys. It makes her brave and foolish and far too loving for her own good. And yet, after years of relentless plotting and backstabbing, Sansa feels her heart go out to her, never mind that Yara would most likely trample it and laugh at her for her compassion.

"When you see him, tell Theon I think of him often," she says.

Yara raises her eyebrows. "If you have designs on my brother..."

Given the opportunity to do so, Sansa would have answered that no, she has no designs on Theon, though certainly she should like to see him again. The memory of him is now a home to return to, something to grasp in the dark of night when the shadows begin to prey upon her thoughts.  
She does not get to disprove Yara, however, for at this precise moment a shout echoes across the yard, and Sansa reaches on instinct for Daenerys's arm and tells her, speaking as low as she can, "You should go now. I will delay this as long as I can."

Daenerys gives her a considering look. Yara's mouth has curved into a slight smile. Sansa thinks there might be admiration in it, but she couldn't be sure.

"Until we meet again," Daenerys says. "Queen Sansa."

"Your Grace," Sansa smiles, and hurries off in the direction the cries came from.

She doesn't look back, but as she turned away she distinctly felt fingers brush the back of her dress and a drawling voice had spoken the words of the ironborn, like a parting gift or a prayer so often used it bears no other meaning than thoughtless superstition.

_What is dead may never die._

 

 

 

 

She has them carry Littlefinger's body into the maester's turret. Once again the snow is on her side, as well as the animation of a castle outside of which several armies are on the move. In death Petyr has been reduced to being one body among many, one of these accidents that occur daily in the wake of a money quarrel, or one of these drunken fools, who froze to death because they forgot to return indoors after stepping out to take a piss.

She isn't under any illusion that this situation will last, however. Eventually someone is bound to recognize him, despite the slight carapace of ice over his body. And indeed the body has barely been deposited into the room that Lord Yohn Royce trundles in, bearing his usual glower.

"Your Grace, I've been told..."

He stops and stares at the table. Petyr's body is frozen in a strange position, hand lifted as if he'd just been trying to reach for his neck. Arya must have arranged him so, so that it would seem as if this was his last gesture upon falling to the ground. It makes him look surprisingly alive, as if he were only waiting for the ice to melt in order to sit up on the table.

Lord Royce exchanges a wearied glance with Sansa. She can tell that he is trying to measure her reaction; to see if this turn of events is a relief, or a blow. Before he can say anything, the rest of them come in, Waynwoods and Lynderlys and Corbrays and Hunters, all those men whom she remembers from the Eyrie, and for their failure to stand up against Petyr despite their distrust.

"What a terrible twist of fate," Lord Harlan Hunter says. Sansa has never had any faith in the man, whose two elder brothers and father have died suspicious deaths.

"He was found in the courtyard," Sansa says. "He must have been killed during the night."

"The Dragon Queen can't be allowed to leave in such conditions," Ser Lyn Corbray protests.

This one as well, she must be wary of. Petyr paid him. He paid him in "gold and boys and promises", he'd said, and Sansa has no intention of keeping up the bargain.

"Littlefinger had many enemies," Bronze Yohn points out. "I'm not committing my men to another war just because you've got it into your head that Baelish was murdered by the Targaryen queen."

"It needs not have been the Targaryen queen," Ser Lyn remarks. "The Lord Protector had enemies in this very room..."

He casts a pointed look at Lord Royce.

"More likely than not he was killed by a whore," Lord Royce grits out, before his eyes fall upon Sansa. He blinks. "Your Grace, I..."

"Tempers have been running high," Sansa says. "Which is why no one will be hastily tried for Lord Baelish's murder. As you have all sworn allegiance to me, I will take it upon myself to name a new Lord Protector..."

Ser Harlan steps boldly forward. "Your Grace might remember that I..."

"Lord Royce," Sansa charges on, "I hereby appoint you Lord Protector of the Vale. I trust you will be a guardian and friend to my cousin."

"Thank you," Bronze Yohn answers, inclining his head.

 _There_ , she thinks. _This void has been filled. Let us hope they'll wait a while before jumping at each other's throats._

She remains behind as they leave the room. She means to pray, or so she tells them. In fact, she counts to ten once they've left and she steals down the stairs, hoping to overhear their thoughts about Petyr's death.

What awaits her at the bottom of the stairs, however, is another conversation entirely.

"I've no desire to remain trapped here, though." The voice is slow, haughty. _Lord Jon Lynderly._ He'd been a friend of Petyr's, or so Petyr said.

"You have no reason to stay," says a second voice, that of the young Lord Hunter. "Contrary to you however, I'm not yet married."

"What makes you think she'll consider you? There'll be Northerners vying for her hand... The new Lord Cerwyn, I hear. There's also the Greyjoy turncloak. He's a prince now, for all his flaws. And with the alliance she's just made, I wouldn't be surprised if the Dragon Queen sent her back her dwarf husband..."

"The first has no guts, the second has no cock and the third is the ugliest man on the continent. I tell you. She'll consider me. I'll just have to woo her first."

"Have you not heard that our former king has returned?"

"A bastard," Ser Harlan scoffs. "Ned Stark's or Rhaegar Targaryen's, it hardly matters. He's still a bastard."

"A bastard he may have been. I'd tread carefully now, if I were you. If you ask around, you'll see they call him prince and god and the best swordsman that ever lived. I can't pass judgment on his cock, but he's got guts alright. And he's as good as made his claim. I'd say there's a fair chance she'll consider him."

"A walking corpse. It's a man she needs."

"I look forward to seeing you try," Lord Lynderly says, with a strenuous laugh. "Come. We must warn our men. I want mine to leave at first light tomorrow. We're no longer needed here."

The moment they're gone, Sansa sinks against the wall, taking the time to catch her breath. _Carrion birds._ Strangely, this unscrupulous discussion of her marriage prospects has shocked her far more than their readiness to feast upon Petyr's frozen corpse.

It makes her feel naive as well. She should have expected this. Of course there will be offers of marriage. There would have been dozens even if she hadn't been queen. And yet she'd buried this thorny question in a corner of her mind, hoping that she would never have the occasion to exhume it.

_She has gone home, the Lady Snow. Her name you'll hear no more._

She lists them all, these names of hers, one after the other. _Sansa Stark. Sansa Lannister. Alayne Stone. Sansa Bolton. Sansa Stark._  
_Sansa Snow, Sansa Targaryen..._

_...Sansa Snow._

 

 

She orders that they burn the bodies of those who died during the night. One can never be too sure.

Then she visits the cold men's camp, riding through the vast snowy landscape that the Targaryen army has deserted, leaving it riddled with bits of broken weapons and torn banners and sullied furs.

Sansa assures the cold men that she'll find a solution to their plight, but the confrontation is stilted and it exhausts her, leaving her slightly warier, slightly more uncertain of what she should do. What she thinks but will never say out loud is that she wishes they'd left and taken the burden of their existence to others. To Daenerys, to Yara. To anyone else. The prospect of these men living in the castle, staring at her from the shadows the way they do now, and pervading Winterfell with their smell of rot, fills her with dread. It's as good as a promise that the war will never be over, and that winter will invade her very halls.

"It's only a temporary solution," she tells Davos upon her return, when he comes to meet her in the stables.

"It won't be a solution at all unless you can get them inside the castle," Davos says. "You need to find that passage through the crypts... I think Jon has gone to talk to your brother about this. Some of the cold men are working in the village though, after what happened last night... You might be able to have them settle there. In any case, whatever decision you make, you should make it fast."

"We'll prepare the rooms that the lords have emptied," Sansa decides. "I need to write a letter to my cousin Robin... I'm thinking if things quiet down here... Even just a little," she corrects herself, seeing Davos's eyes widen in disbelief, "I should probably travel to the Eyrie. They'll have retreated to the Gates of the Moon for the winter. I can go there, bring them Littlefinger's bones. I think I might have a better chance of getting to Robin than the lords of the Vale."

Davos casts a quick look around him. The stables are empty but for the stablehands, far at the other end, but he lowers his voice anyways.

"Is it your intention to..."

"No," Sansa snaps. "The gods forbid. Not Robin. I'd rather marry Lord Hunter... Lord Hunter, who had his father and brothers murdered," she adds, for the sake of clarification.

"Be careful how you present this visit to your cousin, then," Davos warns. "I don't pretend to know much about the way such alliances are brokered, but..."

"I am bringing you the bones of your guardian and making sure you don't decide to turn against me," Sansa says. "This is how I'll present it. Less crudely maybe."

"He might take this as an offer of marriage," Davos warns her.

"Poor Lord Hunter," Sansa says drily. "His hopes dashed to pieces. Him and all the others. No matter how I phrase it, it will be misconstrued. Let it be misconstrued. I'm starting to think that we should have made a pact, Daenerys, Yara and I, that we would never marry. Then, perhaps, the message would have gotten across..."

"Your Grace needs not marry if she doesn't wish to. Not immediately at any rate. Your hold on the north is sufficient and I would advise you to consider every..."

"Would you mind going to see whether the granaries have been secured against the storm?" Sansa interrupts. "I'll go see Bran about the crypts... I should have asked Petyr about that passage. I hope we can take in all the cold men before nightfall - half of them here, half of them in the winter town."

Davos does not insist. To some extent, she wishes that he had. _Tell me what I should do_ , she almost calls to his departing back, though she might not like what he'd say. At least without knowing, she can make her own bad decisions.

 

 

 

 

She finds them in the crypts.

Bran is sitting at the feet of one of the statues. Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. Sansa forgets some of them sometimes, or mixes them up, but she  
recognizes the sharp cheekbones and the peculiar jawline, slanted like the blade of a sickle. A lean king for times of war.

Jon is sitting beside Bran, and though he's wearing his jerkin once more, and his sword is hanging from his hip, he looks deceptively vulnerable. It might be because he's tired, or perhaps it's the face he made when she came in, his smile turned even softer in the light of Meera's torch.

Further away, somewhere off in the shadows, she can faintly make out her sister's skinny figure and Jon's direwolf, moving in and out of the circle of light.

"I think we should take them in," Bran says as she draws near. "They fought for us and we can't leave them in the cold. And if there's a way out of the crypts... I think it leads into the woods. I want us to find it."

"Let's just go now," Arya calls. "Before the storm."

"Are you sure you should be going down there?" Sansa asks Bran.  
"I won't go," Bran says. "Jon will go, with Arya and Ghost, and I'll wait in the forest. I'll try to wait in the right place."

"We wouldn't have to do this if I'd thought of asking Littlefinger," she mutters. "He could have told me how he managed to find a way out, and then we'd..."

"He found a way out by doing what he always did," Arya says. "Lurking. We don't need him. Jon, we should go."

Jon pulls himself to his feet.

"I'll fetch the men," Meera says. She plants her torch in a nearby bracket and heads back towards the stairs.

"Should I..." Sansa ventures.

Exploring the crypts doesn't sound like the kind of thing that she should be doing. Not as a queen, not as Sansa Stark. And yet she can't help but feel a stab of jealousy. It's not the kind of thing that Sansa Stark would do, but it's very much the sort of foolish, adventurous endeavour that Jon and Arya might undertake together. As children, the two of them often played in the crypts with Bran. Jon had tried to trick them, once, pretending to be the ghost of one of the old Stark kings...

"Of course not," Arya says. And then she adds, unexpectedly, "you'll be in the forest, with Bran."

"In case Ghost can smell you," Bran says. "It's worth a try."

Sansa colours. "Oh," she mumbles, as Jon comes forward. Calloused hand cupping her cheek, he plants a firm kiss upon her brow.

"I'll see you outside, aye?"

 _You still behave as if I were your sister, sometimes,_ she thinks, but their eyes meet and the thought vanishes, for there is hardly anything brotherly about the look he gives her.

He draws back and before she can think of anything to say, heart fluttering about like some caged bird, Jon has gone to join Arya and Ghost in the shadows. Meera returns with two Northerners. They lift Bran between themselves and bear him off towards the door.

Sansa follows them, though she looks back once or twice, peering worriedly into the shadows. _It's second nature by now to imagine the worst. The three of them will be fine._

 

 

 

 

They ride off towards the woods, her and Bran and Meera and Pod. Pod rides behind her and Meera a little ahead. The girl sits hunched over her saddle; she would have much preferred to face the snow on her own two legs, rather than on a horse.

Bran is held in place by a strange contraption of iron buckles and leather straps, not unlike the one Tyrion Lannister had drawn for him, when he was still a child with newly-damaged legs. Sansa can glimpse the straight line of his back ahead of her, through the falling snow.

If they had done something differently, could it have been the six of them riding into the woods on a winter day? Robb and Arya leading the way, Jon bringing up the rear and with Rickon sitting in front of her - no, Rickon would have been old enough to ride on his own. The body they buried in the crypts was so much taller than she remembered. And Bran... Bran with Jon, asking him questions, begging for stories, unless he were riding with Robb and it was Arya behind her, looking for the moment when she could break away, leading Jon into a reckless race through the snow-covered fields.

Robb would have been king. Not so much because she believes it could have happened, Robb winning a war in the south and then another one in the north, finding common ground with Daenerys somehow. No, he'd have been king because she likes the idea of it, her handsome brother with a crown upon his dark curls.

The snow and the slow trudge of the horses is conducive to such fantasies. A sterner, more pragmatic part of her is well aware that Robb was still a boy when they crowned him. He was still a boy when he rode off to war. Like all of them, he must have longed for home above all else. A hearty fire and the promise of a life ahead of him.

And Jon... Would Jon have left for the Wall, still? Would he have returned?

Best not to linger on such thoughts. To remember the dead as they were, not as they could have been. To remember the living as they are.

She drives her heels into the horse's flanks, egging it on so that it'll join Bran's. They pass under the branches of the first trees.

"We won't be able to ride much longer in this snow," she remarks.

There are tracks inside the woods from the last hunt, but as soon as they stray from them, the horses will be struggling against a wall of snow rising as far up as their chests.

"We'll have to get off," Bran says. "But I don't think it's far. Do you think you could go on with Pod? You'd just have to follow the ravens."

"Follow the ravens," Sansa repeats. She follows Bran's gaze towards the tree above them. A large black raven is sitting on one of the lowest branches, peering at them. She can glimpse another one ahead, in another tree along the edge of the hunter's tracks.

"They'll guide you," Bran says.

He has them stop a little further off.

Sansa dismounts. For a disorienting moment, she thinks that she can hear the forest breathe. The silence around them is no true silence - noises trapped under the snow, sounds on the inside of trees, muffled and far too low to be heard by human ears. Animals and far-off echoes off a battle Sansa hasn't witnessed. Behind every other group of oaks and pines there is a burnt clearing that Sansa would gladly go through, taking the opportunity to wring her waterlogged skirts, but that there is no snow on the ground, only charred soil, as if the earth won't heal. The crossing of these clearings seems far more dangerous than the uncomfortable trudge through the snow.

They follow the ravens with Pod walking ahead, trying to clear a path for her. When they have to climb other roots and small rises, he waits and reaches down to help her. For the most part, they don't speak. It takes enough focus to keep track of the birds and not fall down into a hole, and besides Sansa's mind keeps wandering. Will the houses that have been rebuilt since the end of the war withstand the storm? Will the others? How should she go about housing dozens of dead men in Winterfell? Should they move the contents of the glass houses during the storm, just in case? Should she be ready to leave for the Vale as soon as the storm is over? Will Robin prove easy to manipulate? Is her position indeed secure enough that she shouldn't think of marrying just yet, and how to answer the proposals that will be made to her?

Her dress catches on a buried root and she stumbles. At first she tries to keep going, lost in thought and numb with cold, until Pod retraces his steps and comes to free her, with such a sharp tug at the hem of her skirt that the fabric tears between his hands.

"You should be wary of the cold, your Grace. And we should walk closer to one another - I think we're being followed."

"It's alright," Sansa says. "It's only a wolf."

Pod and her stare at each other with identical expressions of surprise. Then Pod turns around slowly, and slowly he draws out his sword.

Heart beating fast, Sansa tries to put her strange reaction into words. Certainly, she's tired and distracted, but to the point of dismissing the threat of a wild animal, when there is hardly any prey but them for miles and miles around?

"What is it waiting for?" Pod asks. "Is it because there's two of us? Is it waiting for its pack?"

_Its pack._

"Nymeria!" Sansa exclaims, strangled, as she takes a stumbling step forward, towards where the direwolf must be, because she can't see it. It's rather like a sound, like the steady patter of footsteps in a nearby corridor, or the distant drumming of the rain. Like the strange echo since she entered the forest, telling her that Pod is walking ahead of her, but also that someone is walking behind her - and someone walking below her.

As she retraces her steps, fighting against mounds of snow, she imagines Arya doing the same several feet below, except that the snow is damp earth, falling upon her sister's hair. The air around Arya is heavy with dislodged dust.

"Nymeria!" Sansa calls again, and suddenly she can see her, sitting on her haunches, a little way away under the trees.

They stare at each other. Sansa doesn't dare make another move, lest the direwolf should flee. _But if she's followed us this far..._

"She'll be so happy to see you," she whispers. "Will you come?"

The direwolf goes on watching her. It makes no move to come closer, but neither does it flee. Emboldened, Sansa lowers herself to the ground. She holds out her hand.

It seems doubtful that what has worked time and again with Ghost will have the same results with Nymeria. Still, she figures it's worth a try.

"Come," she whispers, soft and loving, her voice almost like a song. "Come, come to me."

_I'm part of your pack too._

Nymeria gets up. Sansa holds her breath. And slowly, so very slowly, the direwolf begins to come towards her.

Sansa could cry of relief. She's careful to stay as still as possible, down on one knee with her gloved hand stretched out towards the wolf, palm upturned. She thinks of Lady and of her slender legs as the direwolf walked beside her across the courtyard of Winterfell. She thinks of Ghost, curling in on himself and falling asleep in the middle of her bed, so that she had to shove at his heavy body with her weak but infinitely stubborn arms for him to give her some space. And incongruously, she thinks of Theon, haggard blue eyes and beard like dry grass, snatching her hand to pull her across an icy river.

Nymeria gives her hand a good sniff. Sansa can't hold back a puff of exhausted laughter.

"There you are," she says. "Good girl."

 

 

 

 

Another raven, sitting on a white tree stump. Sansa holds onto Nymeria's fur as she climbs the last few feet towards a rocky overhang. Trees on top and snow below. It doesn't look like a cave, but rather like a hill the side of which has fallen in.

Pod comes to join her.

"Can you see any other raven?" Sansa asks.

Pod shakes his head. "Should I try digging?"

"There can't be much snow if the men who attacked Daenerys went through last night. Let's see if we can find an opening."

She keeps a careful eye on Nymeria as she helps Pod inspect the hillside for a passage, scratching at the snow and finding a wall of ice beneath it.

 _If Arya and Jon can't come out, they'll just have to retrace their steps,_ she tells herself, trying to reason with her wearied mind. _They won't be trapped..._

And yet, when a dark shape appears beneath the ice, she promptly begins to hammer on the ice with her fists.

"Here!" she calls.

"Allow me, your Grace."

Pod wields his sword by the cross guard and scabbard, slamming the hilt against the ice. On the other side, Jon must have been doing the same thing, because when the ice comes down, with a ringing that echoes through the woods, Jon stumbles forward and the sword flies from his hands and comes to clatter at her feet.

"I told you not to hold it by the..."

Arya freezes. Then she drops her own sword as carelessly as Jon did his and runs towards the wolf.

Nymeria's first instinct is to leap to the side and scamper, but Ghost bounces out of the tunnel and launches in pursuit of his sister, and Arya runs after them, shouting, "Come back! Come back here!"

"Well," Jon says, looking down at his sword with a faintly mocking smile. "It's right where it belongs, isn't it? Lying at your feet."

Sansa swallows past the knot in her throat. When she doesn't say anything, Jon raises his eyes to her face. His gaze softens when he sees her worried look.

"It was a joke," he says. "Or the tone of it was a joke... Let us not fight for the rest of the day, at least, if we can help it."

"Is there something to fight about?" Sansa asks, as she picks up the sword, surprised at the weight. Jon's hands join hers on the pommel. His are bare, covered in dirt and grime from the tunnels.

"Yara's parting words to me were that you intended to..."

"Seven hells!" she exclaims, startling a laugh out of him. "I'm not marrying her brother. And it's not because I'm going to the Vale that I have any intention of marrying Robin, either."

"What do you mean, going to the Vale?" Jon frowns.

"If the thought of me marrying someone else has you worried, perhaps you should just..."

"I would marry you if I could," Jon snaps, "but we both know you stand to lose more than you'd gain. What is this nonsense about you traveling to the Vale? From what you told me of the boy, it's likely he'll have you shot on sight..."

"You'd marry me?"

Jon's frown deepens. "You'd lose the Stark name. You can't rule the North as Sansa Snow, can you? And claiming the Targaryen name after I swore to Daenerys that I would not threaten her rule..."

"But you'd do it," she insists. "You'd marry me. You want to marry me."

"You'll have suitors," Jon says. "An endless parade of them. I doubt that winter will deter them, not when they might get their hands on half of Westeros..."

"You're rambling," Sansa says. There's also a hint of colour high upon his pale cheeks, though this could be the cold, and she chooses not to mention it.

"Let's just stop talking about it," Jon says, looking at her with faintly accusatory eyes.

"They crowned you as Jon Snow."

"And it made it that much easier to knock the crown off my head."

Their hands are still clasping the sword, the point of it resting upon the snow. Jon pries it gently from her fingers and puts its back in its sheath.

"We should put up torches along the tunnel," he says, as if this talk of marriage had never happened.

Two pale shadows dart into the tunnel, one white, one grey.

"Thank you!"

Before Sansa can turn around and assert that yes, Arya just thanked her, her sister has quickly walked past and followed the direwolves back into the hill.

"I'll send men to clear a path through the woods," Jon says. "See with Bran if the ravens can guide them, otherwise, Pod, you'll do it. Sansa, round up the cold men. Let's try to have them in the castle by nightfall. I'm hoping once they've managed to get past the wards they'll be able to use the gates. They don't eat but you might want to invite them to attend dinner tonight."

"Some of the lords will complain about the smell," she warns him.

"Perhaps that'll spur them to leave faster," Jon says, with this mocking smile like a bite that reminds her, in the flash of teeth, of her older brother.

 

 

 

 

Lord Hunter appears unexpectedly as she's shepherding the cold men towards the woods.

"I suspected your Grace might need help," Lord Hunter says, most gallantly. "May I escort you?"

 _Murderer,_ Sansa thinks, as always when she sees him, though perhaps she isn't being fair. Murderers there are aplenty in Winterfell at present, including herself.

"If this is what your lordship wishes," she says.

He rides with her alongside the column of haggard men. Their numbers have diminished further, whether it has to do with the fight the previous night, or with Daenerys's departure - some of the cold men left willingly with either Daenerys or Yara, determined to return to their homes or, in the case of the dead Unsullied or Dothraki, to remain with their own people.

"Would I be abusing your hospitality if I stayed another fortnight?" Ser Harlan asks. "Ser Jon and Ser Lyn intend to leave at first light and I did consider going with them, but I should like to remain and see what assistance I might bring in these trying times."

_A fortnight. This is how long he thinks it will take him to seduce me._

He is not ugly by any means. Unremarkable, maybe, but tall and well-built. His narrow eyes give him an air of being always amused by what is happening around him.

"Ser Jon and Ser Lyn won't be able to leave tomorrow," she says. "The storm will be upon us by nightfall."

"We've heard of this storm, yes, but Ser Jon doubted it would last the night."

Sansa casts a disbelieving look around her at the flurries of snow and at the swaying trees.

"You may stay, of course."

"Thank you, your Grace. We have had little occasion to talk of late, but I've been meaning to say that I have much admiration for the bravery and endurance that you have displayed since the beginning of these dark times. How rare it is that such beauty as you possess should be complemented by a character so bright and honourable..."

"Thank you," Sansa says. "Though perhaps you might want to be more careful with your praise, lest you should run out of compliments before the end of your stay."

Ser Harlan has the good grace to laugh.

"I hope we will see you at dinner tonight," Sansa says. She can't quite muster a smile, but she hopes the invitation will be enough. He will see it as an overture instead of what it truly is - an attempt at forcing the lords to accept the presence of the cold men inside the castle, and at their dining tables.

"Of course! I will be delighted."

He accompanies her all the way to the hollow hill and insists on helping her down from her horse. Sansa leaves him to wait by their mounts while she ducks inside the damp passageway to have a word with Jon.

Jon is talking with Crowberry, the dead wildling woman who has often served as an emissary for the cold men. Dark-haired and sturdily built, she retains a surprisingly piercing gaze.

"In my name at least, I thank you, Queen Sansa," Crowberry says. "I had no desire to be buried in snow."

"Crowberry and some of the cold men will be present at dinner tonight," Jon tells Sansa. There's a tenseness about his jaw that makes her want to touch him, to press her thumb into the corner of his downturned mouth and to smooth out his furrowed brow.

"I'm pleased to hear it," she says, and breathes out a sigh of relief when Crowberry walks away.

She takes Jon's hand and pulls him deeper into the shadows, in a recess away from the torch-lit path that leads to Winterfell.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Nothing. I think we shouldn't put them all in the keep after all. It might be better to spread them out throughout the castle. Rounding them all in the same camp was a bad idea, it sets them apart and they need to feel included."

"Alright. I'll give the orders. Now tell me. What is it?"

Jon hasn't let go of her hand. Suddenly she wishes she'd removed her glove. She knows what his hand would feel like - dry skin, scarred palm, tight grip of strong fingers. If she takes off her glove, he might not let her take his hand again.

"You need to name a Hand," Jon says. "Do you have any preferred choices?"

"Davos," she says, and then wonders, _Was I supposed to choose you? Is this what you want?_

"It's a good choice."

"I'll name Brienne as the captain of my Queensguard, when I do have a Queensguard. I thought of Arya at first, but then I figured it might be better if Arya didn't have to obey me... She might still accept to join my guard, don't you think?"

"I think she will."

"What is it?" she asks, and this time she does pull back her hand to remove her glove and quickly clasp his fingers once more. An odd little thought sweeps through her head at this first contact, there and then gone. _For you I'd have killed him ten times. I'd have done so much worse._

"Was that Lord Hunter?"

"Lord Hunter?" Sansa repeats uncomprehendingly.

"Don't treat this as a joke," Jon frowns.

Then it strikes her. Jon is jealous - jealous of Lord Hunter.

"He had much to say about my beauty and bravery," she says, well aware that she's being reckless. She remembers the statue in the crypts. The Hungry Wolf. There are so many ways to be hungry. Theon Stark had been hungry for war, and some of that hunger remained in his statue, in its hollow eyes. Do something, she wants to implore this fierce, hungry Jon, who clutches her hand as if he might leave the imprint of his battle scars upon her palm.

"You want me to speak of your beauty?"

He seems lost. There might be some pleasure to be found in torturing him for a compliment, yet Sansa can't deny that she has little wish to treat this as a joke, either.

"I haven't tried to hide what I wanted," she whispers, stepping forward and brushing her nose against his. Then she tilts her head slightly and he moves in to kiss her, his hand tracing soft patterns against the skin of her neck.

"This?" he mumbles.

"More," she whispers back, and emits a tiny sound of surprise when he pushes her backwards, his body trapping her against the wall.

"Hm?"

His way of asking, she supposes, if this is within bounds.

"I can't..." She swallows. "I can't feel you."

Leather plates and wool and linen between them, and this is hardly the place for them to divest themselves of these protective layers. She'll just have to resign herself, then. And she's about to pull away when he takes her hand and guides it under his jerkin, so that she can feel how hard he is inside his breeches, the fabric pulled taut against her curled fingers. Pulse quickening, she unfolds her fingers, pressing down with the heel of her hand. Jon hisses. She can't make out his expression but it's easy enough to picture. Sad and desolate, regretful ahead of regret. He takes a step back.

"It's my peace of mind that I craved, during the war and after...", he mumbles. "I wanted to be at peace. I wanted to rest and I'd dream of your bed and your soft skin... Of your sweet smell..."

Sansa reaches under his jerkin again, small fingers rubbing hard at the front of his breeches. Jon groans, tense and low from the back of his throat, and his hand lashes out to snatch her wrist.

"I'm not at peace," he says, though he doesn't push her away. On the contrary, he uses his hold on her wrist to press her hand more firmly against his cock as his hips buck under her hand. "I just want and want and want..."

Sansa leans closer to nuzzle his neck. She gives his burning skin a kiss and then a cautious lick. His pulse jumps and she smiles, right against his skin, wondering if he can feel it - the smugness of it. She tries to slide her hand inside his breeches, wanting to know if he's as warm down there as he is against her mouth. Will she feel his pulse there, too, as he thrusts against her hand?

"What do you want?" she whispers, knowing that he'll have no choice but to answer, that at last, at last, she has him where she wants him, never mind that the situation is hardly any more appropriate than any of her previous approaches.

"I'd lay you down," he says, then huffs and corrects, "I'd just push you back against the wall and put my mouth on you."

"Where?"

His fingers slip between the folds of her skirt. She has to imagine it - what his touch would feel like, fingers blunter perhaps than her own when she thought of him and reached down with the foolish idea that in relieving the ache, she might more easily fall asleep. She's not sure whether she understood him right, if he would really lift her skirts and fall to his knees and kiss her down between her legs, tugging down her smallclothes perhaps, bearded cheek scratching her thighs. It doesn't matter if that's not what he meant. He needs never know about these twisted thoughts of hers, and how they make her shake with envy as she rubs her legs together, trying to adjust the soaked linen of her smallclothes.

"Dinner won't be for another few hours," she says. "Couldn't we..."

Jon turns around sharply and calls, "Ghost!"

Before she can say anything else he's rushed outside, still shouting to be heard against the roaring gale, "Stand down! Stand down, boy!"

She hastens to follow, brushing cobwebs and soil from her dress and the fur collar of her cloak. There are still cold men making their way down the dank passage and some of her men are standing guard, Northerners for the most part. At first she doesn't see Jon. Where earlier there was a clearing, a narrow opening in the trees below the hill, now there is only white fog and spiraling snow, and the dark silhouettes of the cold men drifting in and out of view, waiting for their turn to get out of the storm. She's trying to decide whether she should leave the shelter of the cave when she hears voices to her left, not too far off.

"The damn beast attacked me!"

And Jon's angry snarl, "You'll live."

"The Queen will hear about this," Ser Harlan warns, his voice drawing near as he steps back towards the entrance of the cave. "You'll see that she'll... Your Grace!", he exclaims, as Sansa comes into view.

He smiles widely, the empty promise of a seasoned courtier. Then he ventures to gaze downward and he notices the white direwolf sitting by her side and her hand resting upon Ghost's head. Ser Harlan watches the steady movement of her fingers, how they stroke and twist and tug at the white fur. A small gesture in the grand scheme of things, perhaps absent-minded.

"I see," Ser Harlan says, pensive.

He comes to stand beside her.

"It seems you were right about the storm, but do you not think it might relent by morning?"

"It might," Sansa agrees.

"Good. I'll tell my men to get ready to leave at the first break in the clouds." And with this he walks off into the white forest, whistling for either his  
squire or his horse.

"Will you have him jump at the throat of any man who dares to pay me a compliment?" she asks, as Jon steps out of the storm, his hair covered in snow. She reaches up to brush off what she can. Docile, Jon inclines his head.

"Only the dangerous ones," he says.

She huffs. "I'll only ever consider a dangerous man. I'd need him to withstand the winter. What do you think of the storm?"

They look out at the blighted landscape.

"I think..." Jon shudders. "I think you should go back through the crypts, and let me ride your horse to Winterfell."

"Your teeth are chattering." She unties her cloak and hands it to him. "Here. Go now, before it gets any worse."

Jon drapes the cloak around his shoulders. "This is a time to stay indoors. Let the whole North sleep for a few days... Hopefully by the time we step back outside, there'll be nothing left. No trace of the war or of the armies or..."

"Nothing but us."

"Nothing but us," he agrees with a faint smile, and she hears an echo of an evening in Winterfell, not so long ago. They'd made a promise, without quite meaning to, that it would only be the two of them, against the winter and the hostile south and the hostile north.

Arya and Bran are back now, though, and they have allies of all sorts, trustworthy or not, and a people to provide for... It will never be the two of them. Leaning in, Jon kisses her cold mouth, oblivious to the remaining soldiers and cold men who hasten towards the cave.

"Until the snow clears," he reminds her. "We said we would lie down... until the snow clears."

"It might take years," Sansa notes, smiling in spite of herself.

"Years," Jon agrees, with perfect composure. "Decades. Let this be the longest winter there ever was."


	11. Epilogue [Jon]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm forever indebted to [iwantyoumellark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwantyoumellark/profile), who'd asked for this epilogue back in 2017. Without her query this story would have remained slightly open-ended.

"Faster, faster," she urges him, as they round another corner and hear the sound of steps coming from a nearby stairway. Voices echo between the stone walls.

Sansa holds out her hand and he seizes it, letting her pull him along the corridor and into a corner, behind a heavy drape that conceals an open window. There's no time to try and grab a hold of the latch. The ground between the drape and the window is frozen over and covered with snow. Sansa edges forward, tucking herself against the window sill. Jon tries to join her, but he slips on a patch of ice and stumbles into her, latching onto her skirts to try and stay upright. Sansa clutches his shoulders, whispers, "Hush!"

"If I have to stay locked in another day I'll go mad," a female voice says, growing louder as she comes closer. "And the smell of the dead ones..."

"You should stay in your room," another voice answers. "That's what Lya is doing. Sleeping all day. Sometimes she fucks that squire, the one with the pointy nose? But mostly she just sleeps."

The voices recede down the corridor. Jon inhales another lungful of snow and turns to Sansa. They stare at each other and laugh, at their snow-covered hair, at his white beard and at her shattering teeth.

"They're... they're gone", she says. "We should leave."

He looks around the damp curtain, and seeing no one there he takes her hand again, and they resume their flight.

There is a freedom to being childish, to running off to her room instead of taking part in the endless distractions that Sansa herself has imposed to lessen the gloom of the long winter nights. Singing and plays and all manners of games. Once or twice - when he'd joined one of the hunting parties, the weather permitting - he'd fallen asleep right there at the high table, and though Arya had assured him that he looked ridiculous, Sansa had been far less amused.

_You sleep like a statue_ , she'd said. _Like a dead man. Sitting upright with only your eyes closed. I can't see your chest rise and fall and sometimes I touch your hand just to make sure it's still warm._

At night she sleeps with her head pillowed on his chest, so that she can hear the steady drum of his heartbeat.

"Who are we hiding from?" he asks, as she urges him down another flight of stairs. Finally her room is up ahead; the corridor that leads to it mercifully empty.

Sansa waits until they're safely locked inside to answer, "You might know that there's a new brothel in the winter town."

Jon gives her a sly look. "I might have heard of it. The owner's young, isn't she? She has red hair."

"Yes," Sansa agrees, as she drops into the chair by the hearth. "Well, Ser Tolas visited this establishment some four or five days ago, and the snow has kept him there, so now his wife is pursuing me, begging me to intervene..."

"To intervene," Jon repeats, perplexed.

"To send someone to drag him back here, so that he might warm her bed, or entertain her with a game of cyvasse. I wouldn't know. If you want my opinion she's well rid of him..."

"The long nights can get lonely," Jon says absent-mindedly as he takes in the sight of her, the glow of her hair in the firelight, her red mouth and her clear blue eyes. She holds out her hand and he accepts it with a smile, pressing a kiss against her knuckles.

"We just need to make sure we don't run out of candles again. So that people have other options than sleeping or... or," she stammers, and he knows what she meant to say, or fucking, a way to allude to the conversation they heard in the corridor and to see, perhaps, how he would react, except that it turned against her, every social grace that her mother had painfully instilled into her rising to the surface.

"Or fire-gazing," he says.

"Or fire-gazing," Sansa echoes, tugging at his hand. "Tell me, Jon. What shall we do with all this stolen time?"

"I suppose we'll fuck," he says, just for the way her hand jolts inside his. Her face turns the prettiest shade of red.

She lets him pull her to her feet and he kisses her with a sigh of relief. He might never get used to this, no matter how many nights he spends in her bed.

He still dreams sometimes that he's back in the forest at night, screaming for his men to hold their ground. _We can't give up the lake! We can't fight them in the woods!_ But the gripping fear is almost worth it, for it makes it all the sweeter to wake up with her hair tickling his nose and her bare arm flung over his chest.

The first time he'd gone hunting, right after the white storm that followed Daenerys's departure, he'd returned haggard with his snow-covered clothes and he'd let himself fall upon her bed. He kept still as she undressed him, one damp item of clothing at a time. The servants dismissed, the fire crackling in the hearth, the night stretching ahead dark and endless and so infinitely pleasant that he had to remind himself, again and again, that this wasn't a dream or a trick - that every one of her kisses was not the final farewell before a battle.

"The more men stay at the brothel, the less we'll have to feed here, I suppose," Sansa says, after another moment of peaceful silence, another drawn- out kiss.

"We're feeding the men in the brothel since the town lives on our stores," Jon reminds her.

"Oh, she's found a way to import her foodstuffs. Strange fruit and rare spices, from what I hear. She might have learned more from Littlefinger than I did. I think that's the main reason the men go there. The food."

"Really?" He removes his jerkin and sets to work on his boots. "I'm not sure one appetite is stronger than the other," he muses.

"If someone gave you the choice, as you were coming home from one of the hunts, what would you pick? A warm meal, or..."

"Or?" he smiles, watching how it kindles an answering smile and a bright spark in her clear eyes. "You just want to hear me say it. We both know I make that choice every time I come back. And every time I head here instead of the hall."

It might be winter and the storms and the lack of candles might have contributed to loosening the morals of the inhabitants of Winterfell; yet there was a disquieting alertness to the gazes of servants and knights alike in the days that followed Daenerys' departure.

Jon couldn't have said on whom these judgmental stares weighed the most, him or Sansa. And despite everything - despite the rampant longing that had been churning in his gut and groin since the start of the war, making his hands shake for the want of her - he barely touched her the first night they lay together. The cold ones had settled within the castle and the glass houses had been secured against the storm and Littlefinger was finally gone. The remaining Starks were safe and out of the cold, and once dinner was over they'd been allowed to retreat to Sansa's room and spend the night undisturbed.

And still something held him back.

Honour, guilt, and the fact that he saw some of his misgivings reflected in Sansa's eyes, even as she grasped the hand he'd placed upon her neck and brought it down below her throat. He took his time kissing her, thumb tracing soft circles upon her skin, her breast firm and soft under his touch, through the thin linen of her shift. He could feel the beat of her heart in a frantic flutter against his palm.

When he'd finally drawn back, it'd been to say, his voice hoarse, "I'll write to Daenerys."

"Write to Daenerys?" Sansa had repeated, a little thrown by this abrupt segue, although such discussions of crown-related matters would become common between them in the weeks that followed, even as they lay entwined on her bed, even as he kissed the back of her damp neck and tried to bring his mind back from wherever it had strayed to try and focus on her questions about the shipments of grain and the slow dismantling of the forges.

"To let her know that I'm marrying you," Jon told her, with the mad resolve of a man who knows that he'll die fighting a losing battle.

Sansa's hands gently stroke the hair away from his face. "Why?" she asks. "What is it that makes me more appealing than a warm meal?"

"You know what," Jon answers, with a minute shake of the head. "This, all of this... That sweet voice you take, when you can tell I'm tired. The way you guard my door."

Hands curving upon her hips, he begins to loosen the laces of her dress. He focuses on the glide of his fingers over fabric, thick, soft velvet and sheerer linen, and on the catch in her breathing as her hip pushes back against his palm.

The first few times he was nervous, as nervous as the greenest of lads. He might as well have been touching a woman for the first time, and half accidentally at that, hands brushing over bits of her he hadn't meant to touch so fast, lips pressed together because after so long, he couldn't seem to shake himself free of his restraint, not to the point of telling her all the foolish endearments that came to his mind.

He has no such qualms now, seizing her round the waist and carrying her the few steps to her bed.

_Our chambers, now_ , she had said, that first night, but it'll always be her chambers to him. In the morning he still jumps when the servants come in to tend the fire, hands grasping for his shirt, his sword, anything so that he won't be found naked in the queen's bed, with the queen's hand having drifted down in her sleep far lower than propriety would allow.

Her chambers and her bed but it hardly matters, for he wouldn't return to his dank, smoke-smelling room for all the world. Not when he can have this instead - Sansa's long legs wrapped around his waist and her hands clutching his shoulders, her heels digging in at the small of his back.

The first time is always rushed, because on the first few nights it had to be. There were often interruptions, queries and catastrophes. The snow causing the collapse of a roof in town or Grinning Will making off with his weight in gold and Jon's own mount, only to be found days later dead in a ditch with a knife sticking out of his frozen chest. The murderer had stolen the horse and not much of the gold. Winter has made a new map of men's concerns.

So Jon has her fast at first, with rash, clumsy thrusts. He muffles his groans into her soft skin, mouth pressed against her shoulder. Her smell reminds him of the war, for he first learned to pick it apart when he was inhabiting Ghost's skin. Sansa's small hand would wrap around the direwolf's snout, a welcoming gesture, _There you are_ , giving his muzzle a shake.

In such moments he finds it difficult to remember that he's no longer a wolf, and so he rubs his nose against her sweat-slick skin much like Ghost would have, tracing the line of her collarbone with teeth and tongue, biting into her rounded shoulder until she bucks against him, fisting her hands in his hair.

The first time she'd guided his hand, teaching him where to touch her and how, with the flat of his palm and his knuckles rather than the tips of his fingers. He knows her well enough by now that he could draw this out if he wanted, for hours perhaps, if he were given the chance.

On another night, maybe. In the meantime he times his rough strokes with her choked off whimpers until she clenches around him and he can wrench his name, low and trembling, from her lips.

As her breathing quietens, he chases his own release with single-minded desperation, spurred on by the loose hold of her arms and the tighter grip of her thighs around his waist, and by her whispered encouragements, which grow more daring as the days go by and as the night stretches, ever longer, before them.

"I would keep you here forever if I could. The king in the North, lost inside me. Is it what it feels like... Like being lost?" she asks, gazing into his hungry eyes.

"No," Jon grunts, and he gives a final thrust, head bowed and shoulders shaking as he empties himself inside her, as deep as he can go. "No, it feels like home."

_You have my blessing_ , Daenerys's answer had come, at last. Davos rightly pointed out that the Dragon Queen did not have much of a choice. Jon's message had hardly been a request, and neither him nor Daenerys have any desire to start another feud.

They waited for her letter, at least, and it was only when it arrived that the castle gathered in the Godswood, and that Jon placed upon Sansa's shoulders the cloak that she had made for him, long before the war started.

Later she crowned him under the snow-covered branches of the heart tree, and before the eyes of Arya and Bran, and perhaps, through Bran, of several generations of Starks - long lost to the sword or the winter or the passing of years - Jon was once again proclaimed king.

The Snow King, they took to calling him, without it being clear whether the name referred to his bastard status or to the long winter over which he must rule.

The Snow Queen, they call her, though she kept her name of Stark and there is hardly any coldness about her.

To her subjects she is the warmth and comfort of a strong roof and sturdy walls after a long ride through the frozen wilds of winter. And to him and him alone, she is the ever-shifting fire in the hearth; the reckless brush of a numb hand against the blazing fire grate.

"What do you think the others are doing?" Sansa asks, running her hand lazily up his side, her fingers dancing along his ribs.

Jon hums a question.

"The rest of the castle. What do you think they're doing, right now?"

"There'll be one of those foolish plays going on in the great hall," he says, as he stretches out upon the furs with all the satisfaction of a well-fed, well-petted beast. He shuts his eyes. "Arya's probably in the yard with Ghost. No one else will be out though. Except Davos, maybe, to make sure she doesn't drown in snow. Must be a lot of fire-gazing going on."

"A lot of fucking, too," she mutters, and squeaks in surprise when he rolls over again, covering her body with his own.

"Aye, a lot of fucking," he says, warm mouth seeking hers.

And once again the only conversation in the room is that of the distant wind, calling to the sizzling fire.


End file.
